Death Pact
by Forever Jake
Summary: My first story about Perenolde the Dishonored. His kingdom crushed and his honor vanished, can a man already a traitor succeed in saving his people from greater darkness? Or is he doomed to repeat his past sins? Currently working on a newer, better versio
1. Chapter I

It was midnight on a cool evening in early November. In the tiny, wooded township of Winterhaven, all was quiet. The villagers were snug in their homes, and their torches, lit so many hours before, were all either dwindling or already extinguished. There was no movement, and no sound save the steady chirp of crickets and the distant hooting of an owl. The sky was clear and cloudless, and the soft, full moonlight shone down upon the village, illuminating the empty streets and abandoned marketplace.  
  
Steadily, although no one was awake to hear it, the sound of hoof beats emerged from the silence of the night. The sounds grew slowly louder until a tall, withered figure on a ragged, black steed appeared suddenly at the top of the squat bluff that overlooked the village green. The rider continued at a leisurely pace down into the township. He paused and dismounted at the edge of the buildings, then walked slowly but confidently through the silence of the empty town.  
  
He reached the foot of the hill in the town center and began to climb. At the top of the hill was the manor of the lord of Winterhaven, but he did not live there anymore. The manor's windows were as dark as those in the shops and cottages below. In springtime, or summer, the windows of the manor would be open to welcome the warm breezes inside, but autumn was nearly gone and the bolted shutters told those who saw them that winter's chill winds had already arrived. Though there was no wind this night, the traveler pulled his thick cloak tighter about him.  
  
He halted in front of the oak doors of the manor and rapped on one several times with his gloved fist. Presently, a shuffling sound emanated from within, followed by the sound of sliding metal. A tiny square at eye level on the door disappeared, replaced by the ancient visage of the caretaker.  
  
"Who is it?" the caretaker whispered irritably.  
  
"It is I," the traveler said. "I am here for the hammer."  
  
The missing square slid back into place and a series of clicking sounds resounded. The great doors opened, and the traveler, gripping his cloak, stepped inside. The doors slammed shut behind him.  
  
Inside, the caretaker motioned to a long and winding staircase. The traveler moved past him and began to climb, his cloak billowing behind him. He reached the top and paused for a moment, noting the thick layer of dust that covered everything. The stillness of the old house was deafening; whatever proud exterior it presented to the populace, the manor's insides were in serious disrepair. Dust and cobwebs covered everything in sight and most of the furniture lay broken or rotting. The caretaker lived alone on the first floor, and from the looks of things, the traveler guessed neither he nor anyone else had been upstairs in many years.  
  
The traveler moved along, undaunted by the stench of decay and disuse. He knew the way by heart; it was he who, years before, had watched the carpenters and craftsmen reconstruct the old house when the previous one had collapsed. He reached the farthest room and stopped. There, beneath an ornately carved stone mantle, lay an immense wooden trunk. A gold latch, engraved with the seal of an eagle and four stars, was held in place by a silver lock. The caretaker, shuffling into the room behind the traveler, pulled a matching silver key from his robes and fitted it into the lock. The traveler bent and heaved the massive lid open.  
  
There, in the bottom of the trunk, lay a huge wooden warhammer with a granite head. The traveler reached in and picked it up, accustoming himself to its weight in his hands. Then he turned and exited the room.  
  
"Hey," the caretaker said, "you want me to close this back up?" The traveler stopped for a moment at the top of the stairs, then called back over his shoulder.  
  
"Do as you wish," he said. "It's your house now. I'll not be coming back." Then he turned and went down the stairs.  
  
*** 


	2. Chapter II

The traveler stood on the far side of the King's Road in the village of Rockdale as he watched the men unload their wagons. There were twenty or thirty peasants who were doing most of the labor, a handful of soldiers socializing to the side of the dozen-long line of wooden wagons, and a lone, burly man in heavy armor standing purposefully at the head of the line, his massive form resting against a body-length wooden warhammer as some local governor assaulted him with conversation. This would be the paladin, the traveler knew. Similar groups as this one had been arriving all day, and like it, each group had included a paladin, who was the leader, and a varying number of footmen, horses and wagons. Like the other paladins, this one had enlisted the local peasantry to hastily unload the wagons and would soon retire into the village barracks to meet with those already present.  
  
Though he doubted anyone had noticed, the traveler had been standing in the same spot, watching the paladins gather, since they had begun to arrive at daybreak. The traveler himself had only arrived two days before, having heard tales of the caravans moving in this direction and guessed at their destination. He had stood, his own hammer in hand, all morning, waiting for an opening to strike up a conversation with one of the knights and perhaps discern their venture. Unfortunately, the traveler was not a brilliant conversationalist, and in anyway, the paladins had been overly busy to spare a moment for some old traveler.  
  
Then, suddenly, the traveler saw his opening. The village governor had stepped aside momentarily to address one of the peasants who had injured his leg working, and the paladin was, for the time being, alone. Without hesitation, the traveler crossed the King's Road and spoke. Though communication was, as mentioned, not his specialty, he had been planning the conversation since the first paladin had appeared, and therefore knew exactly what to say.  
  
"Ho, good knight!" The paladin turned abruptly towards him.  
  
"Ho, man. What is your name?"  
  
"All in good time, Sir. I am but a simple traveler, after all. I am... curious as to the Silver Hand's business in Rockdale."  
  
"I am afraid, good traveler, that our business is not any of yours. Until you see fit to tell me who you are - what's this?" The paladin had just noticed the ornate head on the traveler's warhammer. Unlike the knight's own hammer, which bore the simple emblem of the Silver Hand, the sigil on the traveler's hammer was a sort of family crest involving an eagle and four stars. The paladin gazed at it for several long moments before he recovered.  
  
"Maybe I do know you after all," the knight said thoughtfully. Nearby, the peasants had finished their task, and the foot soldiers were eying the paladin and his companion warily. "Listen, friend. I am Sir Lawdron. Why don't you come down to the barracks with us?"  
  
He paused, then said softly, "I have a feeling you know something of our business already."  
  
***  
  
The barracks structure was typical - a squat stone building with four corner towers and a portcullis, probably designed to look like a miniature citadel. Sir Lawdron led the traveler underneath the raised portcullis and down a short stairway. The stairway was probably the most ingenious part of the structure, for it enabled the soldiers of the barracks to be housed beneath the earth, where space was in abundance. The castle-like stone building above the ground would present a smaller target for enemy troops, while the subterranean chambers would allow the barracks to house an almost limitless number of troops since the sleeping areas could always be expanded into the earth to fit more occupants.  
  
As they descended, the traveler was sure such renovations had taken place recently (probably to accommodate the paladins and their caravans), for the dimly lit cavern that surrounded him as he stepped down from the last stair extended far off into blackness. In the distance, the sounds of packs and axes could be heard intermingled with the shouted orders and acknowledgements of the soldiers and peasants.  
  
They reached a wall suddenly - for the black-brown barriers were the same color as the dim fog of war that engulfed the cavern - and Lawdron felt along it for something. He quickly found his prize, the edge of a dirty- brown door, and he rapped several times upon it. Answered by a loud shout and a return knock, Lawdron gripped a tarnished brass knob and the door opened inwards.  
  
The chamber they now entered was infinitely tinier than the exterior cavern; it seemed to be some sort of small office room, as it was lined with dirty shelves and dirtier books. Like the outside, the walls here were of dirt and stone, as were the floor and ceiling. The room was empty of occupants aside from a trio of paladins who had been conversing at the far end. These three now faced the newcomers with expressions of boredom.  
  
The tallest of the three spoke. "Sir Lawdron, is it? Yes, I thought I recognized you. Here to check in, are you?" The speaker lifted a piece of parchment and scribbled down Lawdron's name. "And you, Sir? I don't recognize you, I'm afraid. Old Sage Truthbearer's eyes don't work as well as they once did."  
  
Lawdron opened his mouth, but the traveler cut him off. "I am not a paladin." Sage looked up. His two companions were also eying the traveler now. Obviously, they could not fathom what a non-paladin would be doing in the Barracks of the Silver Hand.  
  
"Please, Sirs, if I may-" Lawdron began, but the paladin on Sage's left raised a gauntleted hand. Sage turned and looked at him. "What is it, Lord Uther?" He spoke.  
  
"I know who this man is, and he lies. He is a paladin - though not of the Silver Hand."  
  
Now everyone - even the traveler - was staring at Uther in curiosity. "Come now," said the paladin on Sage's right, who's name was Morte. "A paladin, but not of the Silver Hand? Whatever do you mean, Uther?"  
  
Uther cleared his throat, indicating he had a story to tell. He closed his eyes and spoke.  
  
"In the old days, generations before the news of the First War came to us, when Orcs and Ogres were still beings out of legend and myth, the first King of Lordaeron collected all the heroes and men of renown from the farthest corners of the realm, knighting them and christening them the Order of the Wolf, for at that time, the northwolves were the symbol of the King's coat of arms.  
  
"For many years, the Order guarded the nations of Lordaeron, Gilneas, Stromgarde, Dalaran, Alterac and Kul Tiras from harm and danger. Every now and then, a hero would emerge who accomplished some great act of bravery or honor, and he would be inducted into the Order by the other knights, his family crest added to the list of knights who served the king. By the code of the Order, the firstborn son of each knight would be knighted as well, and thus the Order survived from age to age.  
  
"Well, the years wore on, and the throne passed from king to king. The realm became a safer place to live, until one day, the king decreed that the dangers of the old world had vanished back into myth, and the knights were no longer needed to stand against them. The Order was disbanded, and the knights went home to look after their families. Years later, the survivors of Stormwind arrived on our shores, warning of the Horde that faced us, and a new Order was commissioned to turn the tides of darkness away: the Order of the Silver Hand."  
  
"So you're saying," Morte interrupted, "that this man is one of the Wolf Knights?"  
  
"Not exactly, although I don't doubt that's where he picked up the hammer. No," here Uther paused and looked at the traveler, "our visitor was a second son, and so by the code of the old Order, the line was broken. However, he is the only living heir of his family, since his older brother died in the Orc Wars, so the hammer belongs to him - and as our own Code says, 'with the hammer comes the knight.' So you see - you are looking at the only living member of the ancient Order of the Wolf, and a paladin in his own right." All eyes returned to the traveler.  
  
"Well, good Knight, now that we know your history, might we know your name?" Sage peered at the man as he spoke, as if the very dust on his cloak fascinated him.  
  
The traveler answered, but his own gaze was on Uther, not Sage.  
  
"Perenolde," he said.  
  
"Perenolde?" Morte's face was contorted in a combination of confusion and resentment. "Perenolde of Alterac? Perenolde, who sold out to the Horde?"  
  
"The same," the traveler replied.  
  
"I thought so," Lawdron murmured. Uther raised his eyebrows. "Oh, no," Lawdron said, catching Uther's gaze. "I didn't know all that about the Wolf Knights - I just saw the Alterac coat of arms engraved on his hammer." He reached out and lifted Perenolde's hammer so the others could see it. The dim light of the torches illuminated the ancient engraving of an eagle with four stars emblazoned on the head. "I says to myself, 'If the Lord of Alterac himself is prancing around, I better make sure Uther knows about it." As he spoke, he absently turned the hammer over so the other side of the head was visible. There, a wolf with a crown in its paws was carved into the granite. "That must be the Wolf Knights' sigil," Sage said softly.  
  
"Am I the only one who finds it hard to believe that the sole representative of the oldest knighthood in the world just happens to be the greatest betrayer that the Alliance has ever known?" Morte's voice was furious.  
  
"It is rather incredible, I know," Uther said to him. "I imagine I would doubt it myself if I did not know it to be true." He turned to face Perenolde again. "Tell me, old friend. Why have you returned?"  
  
"To repay my debt," Perenolde replied.  
  
"Your debt was repaid long ago, paladin. You have worked for nigh on a decade and a half to rebuild the lands the Horde destroyed. Whatever service you once owed the people of this land has long been balanced."  
  
"Not my debt to them, Uther Lightbringer," Perenolde said. "My debt to you."  
  
"To me? What debt do you owe me, paladin?"  
  
"I am no paladin, Uther; just an old man with a hammer." He paused. "My debt to you is one I shall never be able to repay, for it is the debt of life. It was you who convinced the king to spare me the noose, and it was you who 'sentenced' me to live rebuilding my lands rather than die for them.  
  
"I am here," he concluded, "to announce the end of my toils. Alterac, trampled by the Horde as a result of my... weakness, is rebuilt as beautiful as it ever was. My debt to my people is ended; my debt to you remains. I am here, therefore, to offer my services - my life, which I owe to you - to whatever venture you intend to pursue. Surely," he asked, "the great and powerful Lightbringer does not gather all of his knights together for a picnic?"  
  
"No," Uther admitted, "it is far from that."  
  
"Please," Sage interrupted, "let me tell him, since I can see you're going to anyway. You've done enough storytelling for one day." He cleared his throat and began.  
  
"One of our most gifted Paladins has gone missing. Sir Frederick, Duke of the northern duchy of Wintermaul, disappeared on his way to Stratholme, where he was to investigate the extent of the plague in the region. The last message we received from Frederick was sent just before he entered the forest of Jherynn, west of Stratholme. He had been my student, so I asked Uther if I could go in after him, and assist him if necessary. He agreed and I departed at once with my two best knights, Sir Markus and Sir Burke.  
  
"We reached the edge of the forest without incident, and made camp for the night at the edge of the trees. We had intended to rest up for our endeavor, but none of us slept that night. From nightfall until dawn, unnatural sounds echoed from the forest. In the morning, shaken and un- rested, we set off along the forest path.  
  
"There, surrounded by the green and the shade, our spirits began to return. We called out for Sir Frederick, but no answer came. We continued farther along the forest path until we came to a place where the wide road had been sundered down the middle by the collapse of a giant tree. We agreed to split up and meet at the far end of the tree - Burke and Markus took the left side, and I the right.  
  
"For a time, all was calm. We called back to one another from behind the tree, making pleasant conversation and calling out to Frederick as if we were still walking side by side. Then, all at once, I heard a pair of screams - Burke's and Markus'. I rushed to the end of the tree, for it was by then in sight, and doubled back to the place I had heard the screams. There, in the path, lay Frederick's warhammer, broken in half, with Markus' and Burke's weapons similarly crushed nearby. I looked all around, but I could find no trace of the bodies.  
  
"I returned to Uther and told him what I had seen and heard, and his face grew grim. The loss of on fine knight is frightening enough, and three proved more than we alone could handle. Uther called for a Gar'Thon'Dalas - a great meeting of the Order. All of the Silver Hand, be they knight or squire, are to gather here in Rockdale to hear of what has transpired in the forests of Jherynn, and to offer thoughts of how to retrieve them - or avenge them, if it comes to that."  
  
Morte spoke. "The Silver Hand arrives today, and the Gar'Thon'Dalas begins at sundown. Now, Uther," he said, without taking his eyes from Perenolde, "will this chap be joining us?"  
  
Uther paused a moment, then said, "If he wishes. The Gar'Thon'Dalas, after all, means 'meeting of the knights', and whether he thinks so or not, our friend qualifies." He looked at Perenolde. "If you wish to be of service, I suggest you attend, Sir Perenolde. I can't say I blame you for wanting to help - after all, you do have the Knighthood in your blood.  
  
"Besides," he finished, "it is awfully strange, you turning up at a time like this. Perhaps the fates believe you will be of use to us."  
  
***  
  
Perenolde gripped his hammer in mild annoyance. He had hoped, with his show of his hammer and support of Uther's tale, that he would be able to join the knights in their endeavor. He had, he admitted to himself, vaguely imagined riding at Uther's side through the country, slaughtering orcs or some similar enemy and performing minor miracles with the paladins, and winning back some of his banished honor.  
  
He had not expected to sit here and listen to a bunch of paladins argue with one another.  
  
"We can't deploy our forces until we know what it is we're up against," one paladin said.  
  
"We won't know what we're up against until we deploy our forces!" another replied. Shouting broke out.  
  
Perenolde sighed quietly, steeling himself against the boredom. If this is what Uther wants me to do, he thought, I guess I'll do it...  
  
Suddenly, there was a low whistle - the scouts had seen someone approaching the camp. Everyone who had been talking and shouting stopped and listened. The sound of footsteps drew near, then stopped as their source reached the guards' post. There were the sounds of a struggle and then a woman's voice shouting.  
  
"Uther! Uther Lightbringer!"  
  
Uther stepped forward, just as the woman was dragged into view, kicking and protesting, by a pair of paladins. At a motion from Uther, the paladins let go and the woman ran towards the Lightbringer.  
  
"Jaina? What is it? Where's Arthas?" At the mention of the young prince of Lordaeron, a snicker went up among the paladins. The crusading young prince who had so captivated the public eye was obviously not taken very seriously by his superiors, and it was well known that he and this girl, Jaina Proudmoore, had once been lovers.  
  
"Arthas is in trouble! An army of the dead attacked our forces at Hearthglen. He sent me to find you."  
  
"Hearthglen! Why, that's near where Frederick disappeared!" Uther turned to Sage Truthbearer, who was standing nearby. "Sage! I and my knights will ride with Miss Jaina to Hearthglen; we haven't got time to spare. You and the others rally the soldiers to follow us, and meet us there as soon as you can." Sage nodded and began shouting orders to the assembled paladins, many of whom protested loudly.  
  
Uther turned back to Jaina. "Young lady, can you lead us to where Arthas was attacked?" The girl nodded. "Good. We'll need cavalry and footmen... Damnit! We haven't time!" He looked around at the few soldiers nearby. He pointed to several of them. "You, you and you. And you two. Get your horses and come with me. You and you..."  
  
In the chaos of the moment, no one noticed the forgotten Perenolde walk quickly over to Uther's side. He had overheard everything said since the girl's appearance, and he was snow forcefully grabbing Uther's shoulder.  
  
"Wha-" Uther turned, recognized who was shaking him, and opened his mouth to speak. Perenolde never gave him the chance to say no. "I'm coming with you." Uther looked as though he was going to protest, but, remembering the dire situation, decided the argument would take precious time. Instead, he nodded and went back to his recruiting. Moments later, a dozen knights, Uther, Jaina and Perenolde left the clearing of the Gar'Thon'Dalas of the Silver Hand.  
  
They rode in silence, for there was nothing to be said. Now and again, Jaina would point or gesture which direction to take at some fork in the path, but no sound escaped anyone's lips as they trudged for a quarter of an hour through the wooded countryside.  
  
As they neared what had been the village of Hearthglen, the sounds of battle and the smell of smoke reached them. They pressed on, and presently, the township came into view. The scene there wrenched Perenolde's stomach.  
  
Everywhere the bodies of the dead littered the ground. In the center of the town square, a young man in a paladin's attire faced a vast army nearly by himself. The boy was surrounded by a myriad of horrid creatures. Some seemed to be hastily re-constructed collections of bone, others were immense monstrosities of skin and teeth that seemed to be sewn together from different corpses. There were men in black robes with helms of bone and tiny, creeping, impish things that devoured the corpses of the fallen. The buildings burned and clouds of noxious gases filled the air. Someone said, "Their numbers seem limitless." Maybe it was Arthas. Maybe it was Uther. Maybe it was Perenolde himself. He couldn't tell.  
  
Next to Perenolde, Uther dug his heels into his steed. "For Lordaeron!" he cried. "For the King!" He charged ahead. Jaina, the knights and Perenolde followed.  
  
"Uther!" Arthas cheered as they drew near. "Your timing couldn't have been better!"  
  
"Easy, lad," the elder paladin retorted. "This battle is far from over."  
  
As Perenolde watched, Uther circled wide around the attacking horde, swinging his warhammer angrily and removing the head of one of the larger abominations as he passed. Perenolde raised his own hammer to shield himself, but it was too late. The dead were upon him. Grimacing, he swatted one of tiny corpse-eaters on his right side, crushing its skull with a satisfying 'thwump' sound. He turned abruptly to repeat the process with another such creature on his left, but at that moment his horse gave a startling whimper and began to buckle. Perenolde looked down. A trio of the tiny creepers had attacked his mount's legs, and the beast was collapsing in a mixture of terror and pain.  
  
As the horse crumpled to the earth, Perenolde threw himself from the saddle, landing a yard and a half away. Wiping the mud from his eyes, he looked around, instinctively reaching for his hammer. The creepers were scurrying towards him with hungry looks in their eyes. He had seen them devouring the dead - would they eat the living too? Deciding he didn't want to find out, Perenolde leapt to his legs, turned, and ran away as quickly as he could.  
  
*** 


	3. Chapter III

The battle surged around Uther. He decapitated a skeleton warrior and paused to wipe the sweat from his brow. He didn't know how much more of this he could take. On the hill overlooking the village, a dozen or so of the dark-robed men stood, muttering incantations. Every time Uther cut down an enemy, the robed men raised it up again in his path. He could not reach them, for the undead ranks had swollen and come around behind his men. There was no where to run, no path out of the carnage. They were surrounded, outnumbered seemingly ten to one.  
  
Uther had long since abandoned his steed. It lay nearby, drowned in its own blood, a group of ghouls grotesquely gnawing at its steaming flesh. An abomination's cleaver swung at Uther's head, and he quickly muttered 'Ithul', one of the few magical words the paladins ever used. There was a flash of light, and the abomination shrieked in pain. A glowing shield surrounded the paladin, repulsing the undead attacks. He hefted his warhammer and bellowed a battle cry, swinging it at the nearest enemy.  
  
At the edge of the fray, a meat wagon loaded a corpse into its gutter and let fly. The stinking flesh fell to earth on the last, burning guard tower, which collapsed sideways into the knights' dwindling ranks. Uther, his mind on his foes, did not see the flaming wall of wood and brick as it fell upon him. He buckled under its weight as it fell on him from behind, and he blacked out momentarily. When he awoke moments later, he could feel the debris being pulled from his back. Shuddering, he lifted himself from the pile of stone and looked around.  
  
For now, the undead had been driven back a few yards, startled by the collapsing turret, but that would not keep. Arthas was extending his hand towards the elder paladin. Uther took it, and the prince pulled him to his feet. "Now, Uther," he said mockingly, "this battle is far from over."  
  
"Aye," Uther agreed. "It is at that." The paladins muttered 'Ithul' in unison and surged back into the fray.  
  
***  
  
Perenolde was terrified. He was not what many would call a brave man, and many brave men he knew would have been more than frightened at the waves of undead monsters. Perenolde had done what any rationally thinking man with a survival instinct would have done - he had run for the nearest tree and climbed out of the fiends' reach.  
  
Now that he was out of harm's way, Perenolde's pluck was returning somewhat, although he had not yet committed himself to returning to the ground. From his new vantage point, he could see the entire battle, and he was relieved to find it was a much smaller thing than it appeared to be when one was in the middle of it. The paladins and Arthas' force were not really as far outnumbered as he had first thought; the undead warriors were dying at about the same rate as the living.  
  
What was giving the dead army their advantage, Perenolde decided, were the dark-robed men he had seen as he had rode in. The men (wizards, they seemed to be) had taken hold the short hill beneath him, which overlooked the battle, and a dozen or so of them were pacing and chanting. Every now and then, a warrior below would appear to fall in battle. One of the chanters would stop and wave his arms wildly, and the fallen would rise anew and march against the living.  
  
Perenolde leaned farther out on his branch, trying to get a better look at the men. Inevitably, there was a loud cracking sound, as the branch gave way beneath him. His terror returning, Perenolde shrieked into the night as he fell through the air towards the necromancers. He landed with a dull 'thud' in the center of their circle, and groaned. He looked up.  
  
The robed men stood over him, their serpent-headed staves pointed at him menacingly. Several of them opened their mouths to curse him, but they never had a chance. There was another loud cracking sound. The tree Perenolde had fallen from was tipping comically towards him. This really isn't my day, he thought, grasping his hammer, which had landed nearby, and fleeing down the hill. The robed men scattered as the tree crashed to earth.  
  
The crashing sound had drawn the attention several of the knights, who were now staring at Perenolde rather curiously. He blinked, then grinned, raising his warhammer to the skies in salute. Slowly, one by one, they returned the salute, then they turned their attention back to the battle. As he had seen from his tree, the undead were being steadily beaten back. This battle would be won after all.  
  
Exhausted, shaken and relieved, Perenolde sat down at the foot of the hill and put his head in his hands. Maybe, he thought, adventure wasn't so great after all.  
  
***  
  
"I'm surprised you kept things together as long as you did, lad," Uther was saying. The battle was over. The bodies of the dead littered ground. The smoldering remains of Hearthglen village made a paltry funeral pyre for both those newly slain and those finally laid to rest. "If I hadn't arrived just then-"  
  
"Look, I did the best I could, Uther!" Arthas was not calmed by Uther's casual banter. The elder paladin took a step back in surprise at the ferociousness of his pupil. Perenolde looked up. "If I'd had a legion of knights riding at my back, I would've-"  
  
"Peace, lad!" Uther tried again to soothe the boy. "Now is not the time to be choking on pride! What we faced here was only the beginning. The undead ranks are bolstered every time one of our warriors falls in battle."  
  
"Then we should strike at their leader! I'll go to Stratholme and kill Mal'Ganis myself if I have to!"  
  
There was fire in the boy's eyes; something angry that had long been suppressed. Perenolde had seen it before in warriors just before their final charge. This boy is so young, yet so full of rage, Perenolde thought. His passions rule him.  
  
"Easy, lad. Brave as you are, you can't hope defeat a man who commands the dead all by yourself." Uther was now standing next to the boy, his hand on Arthas' shoulder.  
  
"Then feel free to tag along, Uther," the prince said venomously, throwing the Lightbringer's hand off him. "I'm going... with or without you." He turned and ran off down the wooded path. At the sight of their commander leaving, the peasants, dwarves and foot soldiers picked up their things and set off at a brisk trot after him.  
  
Uther sighed. "Good luck, then, lad," he said softly. "I hope you know what you're doing out there." Perenolde nodded in agreement, though no one saw him do so.  
  
***  
  
Morning came, and Perenolde arose to find the camp being hastily disassembled. He made his way to the mess tarp and sat down next to a very tired-looking Lord Uther. From the looks of things, the Lightbringer had had little or no sleep the previous night, and had resigned himself to an equally horrid day. To match his mood, rain clouds had descended to pepper the soldiers with water droplets, casting a pall over everyone's disposition. Perenolde took a tray of what appeared to be boiled eggs - one was never sure with army food, and the dwarven cooks was not the best Perenolde had heard of - and dropped it loudly onto the table to grab Uther's attention.  
  
"Good Morning," he said to the fatigued paladin. Uther gave him a look which seemed to say, "No, I don't suppose it is," and sighed. He's been doing a lot of that lately, Perenolde thought. He looked around as he put a large bite of egg in his mouth. There seemed to be a greatly larger number of men present than he had seen the night before. He spotted Sage Truthbearer and Baron Morte exchanging conversation at the edge of the camp. Convinced that Uther had nothing else to say to him, Perenolde finished off his eggs, rose from the table, and made his way towards the two paladins.  
  
They stopped talking as they saw him approach. He thought nothing of it; they did still think of him as the 'Great Betrayer', after all. He smiled politely and a bid them good morning. They nodded in acknowledgement.  
  
"So," Perenolde said, attempting to break the ice. "Are we heading for home?"  
  
"Lord Uther has decided we are to join with Arthas' men at Stratholme," said Morte. "However, I don't think we'll be fighting. Uther still believes he can dissuade the boy from this madness, the old fool."  
  
"Now, Morte," Sage said to the other paladin, "I really don't think we should blame Uther for having faith."  
  
"Faith is one thing, Sage - naïveté is another. If Uther is not careful, that boy will be all of our undoings."  
  
"How can one little whelp scare you so much?" Perenolde laughed. The paladins stared at him. They clearly did not think the matter funny.  
  
"There is something wrong with that boy, Betrayer," Morte said sternly. "I've seen it in his eyes - something dark, waiting to be let out. He's obsessed with his quest, and it is driving him mad. Nothing good will come of it."  
  
Perenolde swallowed, remembering the flash he himself had seen in Arthas' eyes just the night before. Perhaps there is some truth to it, he thought. Perhaps there's more to that boy than meets the eye.  
  
"Perenolde," said a familiar voice behind him. He turned around. Uther stood there, frowning at him. "I am not asking you to come with us. I don't know-" He paused and cleared his throat. Has he been crying? Perenolde wondered. "I don't know what is going to happen in Stratholme. I don't know what Arthas will do. He is headed for trouble, and I've got to do something - but I am not asking you to come along. Your debt, whatever you think you owe me - I don't need your help for this. Understood?"  
  
"I had already decided to go," Perenolde replied matter-of-factly. "Not for you, he said, seeing Uther's expression. "For me. I've come this far, what else have I got to do? Build more farms? No," he concluded. "I'm seeing this through. Whatever happens in Stratholme, I am sticking with you and your men."  
  
He expected Uther to protest, but Sage said, "Let him come along Uther. We can keep an eye on him, at least." Uther nodded in defeat, and muttered, "Get your horses, then," and walked off to rally the soldiers.  
  
A heavy, gloved hand set down on Perenolde's shoulder. "I always said the Silver Hand should have kept its eye on this bloke," Morte said. Perenolde brushed the hand off.  
  
"Leave him be, Morte," said Sage. "We do still have to find Frederick, after all. If we end up needing an extra man, I don't want you to have frightened this one off."  
  
"Aye," the other paladin ceded, turning and walking towards the stables.  
  
"And as for you," Sage added, as he turned to follow suit, "do try to stay out of trouble. Don't fall out of any more trees."  
  
***  
  
They were once more on horseback, galloping through the back roads of the country. As the gates of Stratholme came into view, Sage yelled a garbled order over his shoulder. The other knights seemed to understand it well enough, for their formation shifted, evening out from a flanking orientation to a pair of straight lines. In front of them, Jaina, Uther, Sage and Morte rode across the city's threshold together. Perenolde and the lower soldiery brought up the rear.  
  
Uther called something friendly out as they slowed and approached Arthas' camp. The riding and the brisk late-morning air seemed to have improved his demeanor. However, Perenolde reminded himself, the test is still ahead. Uther had halted, but not dismounted, and Arthas had stepped forward to speak with him. Jaina Proudmoore also drew near, intent to participate in the conversation. Perenolde slowed to a stop beside one of Uther's knights and focused on the three.  
  
"Glad you could make it, Uther," Arthas said caustically. Uther cleared his throat.  
  
"Watch your tone with me, boy," he rebuked. "You may be the prince, but I am still your superior as a paladin."  
  
The prince rolled his eyes. "Listen, Uther," he said, climbing onto a small outcropping of land. "There's something about the plague you should know-" He trailed off, staring at a group of townsfolk who had turned suddenly and were rushing into their homes. The prince looked around for a moment, and spotted a pile of opened crates with insects buzzing quietly around them.  
  
"Oh, no," Arthas murmured. "We're too late. These people have all been infected! They may look fine now, but it's just a matter of time before they turn into the undead!"  
  
"What?!" exclaimed Uther.  
  
Arthas looked back at him. "This entire city must be purged."  
  
"How can you even consider that?" Uther looked as if Arthas had told him the King was dead. "There's got to be some other way!"  
  
"Damn it, Uther!" Arthas cursed. "As your future king, I order you to purge this city!"  
  
"You are not my king yet, boy!" Uther retorted. "Nor would I obey that order even if you were!"  
  
Arthas frowned acidly. "Then I must consider this an act of treason."  
  
"Treason? Have you lost your mind, Arthas?"  
  
"Have I?" the prince said to himself. Then, the shadow Perenolde had seen in the boy's face the previous night returned. He turned completely forward and spoke up, so all those present could hear him.  
  
"Lord Uther," he said, "? Lord Uther, by might of succession and the sovereignty of my crown, I hereby relieve you of your command and suspend your paladins from service."  
  
"Arthas," Jaina said, in a shocked voice, "you can't just-"  
  
"It's done!" he shouted at her. "Those of you who have the will to save this land," he continued, "follow me. The rest of you... get out of my sight."  
  
Several of the assembled knights began to nudge their mounts away, as if to say, "We've seen enough." Most remained, waiting to hear Uther's reaction. For several long moments, the old crusader was silent, as if unsure what to say. Then, as the autumn sun high above dipped behind a cloud, he muttered, "You've just crossed a terrible threshold, Arthas." He turned and rode off. The majority of his knights followed.  
  
Arthas looked at Perenolde. Don't look at me, Perenolde thought. I go where Uther goes. He began to leave after the others.  
  
"Jaina?" Perenolde paused, looking back. Arthas had come down from the shallow hill he had been standing on, and was looking at Jaina Proudmoore, who looked as though she was about to cry. She begun to turn away as well, and Arthas was obviously looking to her for loyalty. She faltered for a moment, and than said simply, "I'm sorry, Arthas. I can't watch you do this." She spurred her mount.  
  
Perenolde rode after her. He cast one last glance over his shoulder. The boy had gone over to his captains and was busy planning their purge of the city. You're on your own, now, boy, Perenolde thought. I hope you know what you're doing.  
  
*** 


	4. Chapter IV

The smells of ash and rotting flesh hung in the air in what had once been the proud city of Stratholme. Corpses were piled high at every intersection, hundreds of human bodies without names or markers. Husbands mourned their wives, and wives their husbands; children cried helplessly for parents, and parents searched the ruined houses in vain for their children. Acrid smoke from the funeral pyres, lit to mask the stench of death, rose over the town and poisoned the skies above. The clouds of smoke billowed and hung about the cityscape like a tombstone for the whole city, as if to say to any who saw it, "Here Lies Stratholme, Rest In Peace."  
  
The woman did not know why she was here. She had no purpose here. She had had a purpose once, she knew, but something had happened, something terrible that she could not bring herself to recall, and she had lost it. She had lost her purpose, her very reason or will to live. She had wandered vaguely for a time and found herself here, in this place of death and destruction, where so many mourned those they had lost. She mourned too, but she mourned herself.  
  
"So much death," she found herself saying. She often spoke to herself now, but she rarely listened. She was lost, and she wanted to stay lost until the memories of the terrible thing had gone away.  
  
A voice she knew, a man's voice, was calling something; she could hear it. Was it some memory, some ghost she had conjured up from her misery to torment herself with? No; it was real, it was somewhere out in the city. She listened.  
  
"Jaina," the voice said. She knew that name, almost like she knew the voice, although she could place neither. "Jaina," it called again. Who was it? Who was Jaina? And who was the man with the voice?  
  
"Jaina, Jaina Proudmoore." The voice was clearer now. She looked down the lane. There was a tall man in armor coming towards her. His was the voice she had heard. "Jaina, Jaina Proudmoore!" he called again. He was looking at her. That was strange. She wasn't Jaina, was she? She thought hard. She supposed perhaps she might be. The man called again. "Jaina!" He was nearer now and it was clear he had recognized her.  
  
"Yes," she murmured, more to herself than to him "I suppose I am. And you are..." She paused. Something was coming back, something she had buried away. "Lord Uther!" she cried finally. Yes, she remembered him. She remembered...  
  
She shuddered as memories came back. Not so quickly, she begged herself. Uther was speaking.  
  
"Ah, Jaina. I thought I might find you here. Where has he gone, girl?" She shoved the memory back again. She had to fight it, had to keep it away...  
  
"Wh-who?" she tried. Uther's reply was sharp.  
  
"Arthas, of course. Think, girl. Where has he gone? Where has Arthas taken the fleet?"  
  
Arthas... there was another name that was familiar. She thought hard... they were coming back, she couldn't fight them...  
  
"H-he came to me before he left," she was saying. Images where coming back, images of a young man with yellow hair. They were talking, arguing... he struck her...  
  
She crumpled to the ground and assumed a fetal position. It was all coming back, all too soon... she couldn't fight it... She began to sob. "I pleaded with him not to go, I told him it sounded like a trap!"  
  
"WHERE?" Uther yelled.  
  
"Northrend!" She exclaimed, and the sobbing intensified into a bawl. She remembered him walking away, remembered him leaving her there in the snow... she remembered...  
  
"H-he's gone to N-Northrend to hunt Mal'Ganis," She remembered it all.  
  
"Damn that boy!" Uther grabbed her arm and lifted her to her feet. "I've got to inform King Terenas," he said. "I'll send a knight for you. You're going to be just fine, Jaina." She continued to lie there, sobbing.  
  
"Don't be too hard on yourself, girl," Uther said softly. "You had nothing to do with this... slaughter." She cried louder. Uther looked behind him. Villagers were beginning to stare.  
  
A strange voice spoke. "This 'slaughter', is only the beginning." Uther looked up. A man, dressed in a brown cloak adorned with raven feathers, sat upon an arch above the street. Uther squinted. Had he been there the whole time?  
  
"The dead in this land might lie still for the time being," he continued, "but don't be fooled. Your young prince will find only death in the cold north."  
  
"You," Jaina murmured. She uncurled and looked up at the stranger. Her sobbing, Uther noted, seemed to have stopped. "Arthas is only doing what he thinks is right!" Uther smiled. Despite his crimes, Jaina still stood up for the young prince.  
  
"Commendable as that may be," the stranger said, "his passions will be his undoing." He dropped from the arch and landed nimbly on the street. "It falls to you now, young sorceress," he said, gesturing to Jaina. "You must lead your people west to the ancient lands of Kalimdor. Only there can you combat the shadow and save this world from the flame."  
  
"Me? But how-"  
  
"The King, the Arch-Mage, and the Prince have all refused this cup - their fates are sealed. Go quickly now, young one. You must rally your people in their darkest hour, or their fates shall be sealed as well. Only in the west, in the forgotten lands, can you hope to make your stand."  
  
He turned and began to walk away.  
  
"Wait!" Jaina called. The stranger stopped for a moment, and looked over his shoulder at her.  
  
"The warning has been given, Jaina Proudmoore. I hope that you heed it, for the shadow is nearly upon you... I do not have time to find someone else." He reached the arch and murmured a word of magic. There was a dim flash, and a great raven appeared where the stranger had been standing. The bid cawed, as if to bid the paladin and the sorceress farewell, and then, with a mighty flap of its wings, it vanished into the smoke-filled sky.  
  
Uther reached down and helped Jaina to her feet. She stood up straight and smoothed out her wizard's robes. Uther looked at her closely. Her tears were gone, her eyes dry, and her fear and mourning replaced with a look of proud, grim determination.  
  
"I must go to the King now," Uther said softly.  
  
"I will go with you," she replied.  
  
***  
  
Black Rook Isle glistened in the Lordamere bay like a charcoal diamond in a bed of obsidian. The island's gleaming silver turrets and majestic archways could be seen from far across the bay as Admiral Proudmoore's ship, the Majestic, floated serenely atop the calm, waveless waters. A smaller ship, the Steadfast, was anchored nearby. The Admiral had come to Lordamere to meet with King Terenas and his wizards - for that was how the Admiral thought of the Kirin Tor - as soon as the news of his daughter's disappearance had reached him. Though separated by distance and business, Daelin Proudmoore remained a very protective parent, and kept a far closer eye on his daughter than she probably guessed. Communications with her wizard masters, agents in the palaces - everything short of direct espionage kept the aging Admiral aware of his daughter's whereabouts and well-being.  
  
When the young sorceress had gone missing, therefore, he immediately hopped aboard his fastest vessel, the Steadfast, sent a letter ahead to prepare the for his coming, and sailed through sea and river from his home port of Kul Tiras to Black Rook Isle, the guest palace of King Terenas, in hopes of enlisting the king's men to search for the missing Jaina. He had chosen to remain on his embassy ship, the Majesty, which was permanently anchored in the bay, rather than to await Terenas in the palace - a breach of protocol, which would hopefully impress upon Terenas the urgency of the visit. It seemed to have worked, as a white-and-gold flag symbolizing a meeting had just gone up over Black Rook's turrets, announcing Terenas' arrival, and Proudmoore was now in a smaller boat, being ferried across the bay to the isle to meet the king.  
  
The boat struck ground on a narrow stretch of beach between long expanses of treacherous rocks and stones. This was the only safe landing on the isle, and it was directly in front of the obsidian-tiled palace. The palace itself had once been a fortress, Proudmoore knew, in days of old when the infant human kingdoms had battled one another for dominance of the countryside. In those times, the myriad stone formations had served as a deterrent for pirates and invaders, keeping enemies from landing and disabling the powerful cannons the fortress used to protect the rest of the bay. Now, however, they were merely very pretty, as all visitors to the isle were invited, and were therefore directed away from the dangerous rocks to the soft, sandy beach.  
  
Proudmoore pulled himself up out of the boat and swung his leg over the side, his gray boot crunching against a patch of gravel. He stood and began to walk towards the gleaming black palace as the sailors behind him made haste to lash the boat to a nearby post. A pair of servants dashed ahead to open the door for him, and he stepped out of the sun into a beautiful room. The floors were smooth and dark, much to his taste, and the walls were soft, with seashells and paintings of mermaids that were pleasing to the eye. Terenas had obviously styled the room specifically for the Admiral's visit, and was a blatant advertisement of the king's vast wealth. Though the coastal theme of the room visually pleased him, Proudmoore was inwardly angered that Terenas would devote more funds to a room than he seemed to indulge in his people. Easy, he told himself. This is not your country. Let Terenas run his monarchy the way he wants to, and you run yours the way you want to.  
  
"Daelin!" came a congenial voice. The Admiral spun. A slightly overweight man who vaguely resembled the King Terenas in his memory was stepping through a doorway, his arms outstretched in greeting. He was followed by a group of men, whom Proudmoore assumed must be servants. The Admiral gingerly approached the king, who leapt forward and embraced him in a bear hug.  
  
"It's been ages, hasn't it?" the king said. "How was your voyage? How's your kingdom? How is trade going for you?"  
  
"Fine, all fine." The Admiral removed himself from the embrace and smoothed his clothing. "If you don't mind, your Majesty, I thought we might get right down to business."  
  
"Oh! Of course, of course!" The king was eager to help. "What's the trouble, Admiral?" Given the tenderness of the situation, the king's casual demeanor had begun to annoy him. He pressed on, regardless.  
  
"My daughter has gone missing," Proudmoore said. This seemed to surprise the king. Obviously, Proudmoore thought, his agents are not as reliable as my own.  
  
"Gone missing, eh?" Terenas asked. "That's the trouble with kids today; always running off. Take my Arthas, for example. I haven't seen him in months; he's always so busy with the Silver Hand and all..."  
  
Proudmoore sighed. The king wasn't taking this the least bit seriously.  
  
"Still..." Terenas said, as if struggling to add something up in his head. "Are you quite sure she's, well, actually 'missing'? You've spoken with the Kirin Tor?"  
  
"Yes, I've had correspondence with your wizards, Highness. Nothing."  
  
"Very strange, indeed..." The king paused. "Uther?" He turned to one of the men who stood behind him. Proudmoore blinked. Uther the Lightbringer? he thought. He studied the man's face. The paladin was older and seemingly more bitter than when the Admiral had seen him so many years ago, but underneath the graying beard that now covered his face, there was a face Proudmoore recognized. He got old, he found himself thinking.  
  
How old does that make me, then? he wondered.  
  
"Uther," Terenas was saying, "this all strikes me as very strange. I'm quite sure I've seen Miss Proudmoore very recently. Do you have any idea where that might have been?" He's being sarcastic, the Admiral realized. What's he getting at?  
  
"Yes," Uther said. He did not seem to share the king's humor, or enthusiasm. "Yes, she came in with me. She's staying in the palace, remember? Shall I fetch her?"  
  
"There's no need," came a woman's voice. "I came anyway." Everyone turned. In another doorway, Jaina Proudmoore stood alone. She wore her dirtied traveling clothes, though Terenas had without doubt given her some pretty gown to wear - the Admiral smiled proudly - and her sorceress' wand hung from her belt.  
  
"Jaina!" the Admiral cried, rushing to his daughter's side and embracing her. She pulled away.  
  
"We must leave, Father," she said.  
  
"But you've only just arrived!" the king called. Does the man ever shut up and mind his own business? Admiral Proudmoore wondered.  
  
"No," Jaina said to her father. "I don't mean we must leave the palace - I mean we must leave Lordaeron, leave the whole continent. And I don't mean just us two, I mean everyone, anyone who'll come!"  
  
"What?" king and the Admiral gasped at the same time.  
  
"Easy, Jaina," Uther said.  
  
"Listen to me, Father. I have seen things, horrible things. I've seen armies of the dead march. I've seen good men do evil deeds. I've seen the people die and rise again. Something is coming, Father, something big. And we can't fight it here. Arthas tried, and he's failed."  
  
"Arthas? What do you know about Arthas?" Terenas shrieked.  
  
"We've got to sail west, to a place called Kalimdor."  
  
"I don't understand, love. Why must we go? What is coming?"  
  
"The end of the world," she said.  
  
"This is madness!" the king shouted. "I've heard this before. I for one am not going anywhere! My place is with my people, and my people's place is here!"  
  
"Jaina," Uther said softly, "what are you saying? How can we leave our homes, our families? You're not thinking clearly, girl."  
  
"I am, Uther!" Jaina replied. "You were there. You heard what that man told me. We must go! We have no chance here!"  
  
"Preposterous," Terenas was saying. "We will not leave. Lordaeron does not run from its enemies!"  
  
"Then you can stay if you want," Jaina said coldly. "Your choice is already made, after all. I am going, with any who will follow me."  
  
"You are not going anywhere," Proudmoore said. Jaina looked at him. "I don't know what has gotten into you, Jaina. First you disappear, and now you want to leave forever? I forbid it. This is a fool's errand, and my daughter will not be part of it!"  
  
"But-"  
  
"No!" He turned and motioned to his servants, who moved towards the door. "King Terenas, I thank you for your hospitality, brief though my visit has been. I," he grabbed Jaina's arm, "and my daughter, will now return to the Majesty. We will depart at dawn. I am sorry to have inconvenienced you." He pulled Jaina towards the door.  
  
Outside, thunder clapped. The sky had grown dark. A storm was coming.  
  
*** 


	5. Chapter V

There was a pound on the door of Jaina's cabin on the embassy ship known as the Majesty. She looked up from her work in disgust.  
  
"What do you want?" she yelled.  
  
"You've visitors, Miss Proudmoore," the guard called back.  
  
"Who is it?" she shouted at him.  
  
There was an amazingly loud bang and the door flew open, splintering slightly around the knob. In the doorway stood Lord Uther and a small cadre of knights. Lord Uther pantomimed knocking.  
  
"May we come in?" he asked.  
  
She shrugged and went back to her work, which was tying the ends of sheets together. The knights filed one by one into the room, and the last one shut the door. The cabin was not a large one, and by the time they had all entered they were rather cramped.  
  
"My, my," Uther said, noting the young sorceress' handiwork. "Breaking out?"  
  
"Of course," she replied without looking up. "You can tell my father if you want, it won't surprise him. He took my wand so I can't teleport, but short of boarding up all the portholes, he can't stop me from getting out the old- fashioned way."  
  
"No," the Lightbringer said, "We're not here to keep you locked up. Quite the opposite, actually." She looked up.  
  
"What do you want?"  
  
"To give you this, firstly." Uther reached into his cloak and produced a short wand with a blue gemstone on the end. "I convinced your father to give me this. I think he rather imagined I would return it to the Kirin Tor, but I think you'll make better use of it." He held it out to her. She hesitated.  
  
"Why?" she asked.  
  
"Because its your bloody wand!" he exclaimed.  
  
"No, Uther, I mean why are you helping me? You're a paladin, Uther, and paladins don't go around breaking prisoners out on whim." Uther's face hardened, and he nodded.  
  
"Remember, I was there when that 'prophet' talked to you Jaina. I gather he gave Arthas the same tale, and I'm glad you want to make the right choice where he didn't." He paused and cleared his throat, as if unsure whether to go on. After a brief hesitation, he spoke again. "I've seen what's been happening here with the undead and the cultists and whatnot. Whether your 'prophet' was right or not, bad things are happening here, Jaina. Times are going to be very hard soon for these people, and they deserve a way out if they want it. Your trek to the lands the prophet mentioned fits that description perfectly. I'm prepared to let you, even help you escape if it means you'll lead these people to safety."  
  
"These men will help you in this?" she asked, gesturing to the paladins.  
  
"That's the other reason I came," he said. "The Silver Hand has decided that a group of paladins be sent north to search for the source of the plague, since the Light protects us from disease of any kind. They will learn what they can and possibly even find a cure."  
  
"Touching," Jaina agreed. "These are that group?"  
  
"Yes. But," Uther added, "they will need a ship."  
  
"And what are you supposing I do about that?"  
  
"Since you've been captive in this room, three of your father's navy vessels have entered and become anchored in the bay: the Vigilant, the Guardian, and the Posthaste."  
  
"Yes, I saw them through the porthole. So?"  
  
"We will help you commandeer those vessels, plus the Steadfast, to bear you and your followers across the sea. In return, you will give these men a ship for their quest."  
  
She stared up at him from where she was seated on the floor, the sheet-ends knotted together in her lap, forgotten. She hesitated for a few long moments, then nodded quickly and stood up, reaching for her wand, which Uther still held extended towards her.  
  
"Alright," she said, "this is going to feel a little weird..." She spoke a few words of magic. A bright hourglass-shape made of light appeared, stretching from her feet to the ceiling, and everyone in the room felt a strange tingling sensation. The room grew dark, and then completely faded from view.  
  
Presently, new surroundings appeared. They were on a dock of some sort, and it was cold. Rain drenched them. Thunder clapped above, and lightening revealed the setting. They were on the western shore of the Lordamere bay, at some fishing village or another. The ships Jaina had seen enter the bay were moored nearby; probably they had been moved when the storm came up to stop them from capsizing out on the waves.  
  
"There," Jaina said, pointing to a bend along the coastline. "You can't see it from here, but the river flows out around the bend and turns south towards the sea. The ship captains will listen to me; I doubt my father told them I was a prisoner. I can have them move the Vigilant, the Guardian, and the Posthaste into the river before the Majesty and the Steadfast notice they're missing." Uther nodded.  
  
"The Silver Hand has rallied the refugees from Hearthglen and Stratholme. They want to go with you. They are waiting a ways down-river, in a village called Watertown. Your father's ships will have more than enough room for them."  
  
"We do have one problem," Jaina admitted. "Once we're gone, Father will send his men after us. Now, the Majesty is purely for show, and its so big and bulky, it could never catch us. The Steadfast, however, is the fastest and most maneuverable ship my Father owns, and there's no way it won't reach us before we load the refugees and get to sea. I don't want a battle," she added. "I won't pit my father's men against one another."  
  
"We will deal with the Steadfast," Uther promised. "Just get the other three ships to Watertown. My group will meet you there to take their ship."  
  
Jaina turned and darted away towards the Vigilant, the Guardian, and the Posthaste. Uther explained the plan to his men, who, due to the noise of the rain, had not caught all of the conversation. They agreed. At Uther's side, Perenolde watched as Morte, Lawdron and a man named Frederick marched away in the opposite direction, towards the Majesty and the Steadfast. Uther turned to Perenolde.  
  
"Go with them," he said.  
  
"But my debt is to you," Perenolde argued. "You can't just order me away." Uther sighed. They had had the argument several times in the last few days since the quest had been announced.  
  
"I won't make you go, Perenolde," Uther admitted. "But I want you to. You need this quest. You do what you want, but if you really want to repay your debt to me, go with them." Uther turned and walked away, disappearing between two of the buildings in the village.  
  
"Wait," Perenolde called, but Uther was gone. Perenolde cursed. He stood there a moment longer, debating, feeling the rain soak through his dirty cloak, and then, cursing again, he turned and ran after the other paladins.  
  
***  
  
"Wait up!" he called as the three came into view ahead. They turned to look at him, their faces ones of extreme annoyance. Perenolde couldn't blame them, he decided. They were cold and wet, and they were being made to spend more time outside cold and wet because he, someone they did not want to be with, had called to them to wait up.  
  
"Sorry," he said lamely as he jogged up to them. "I'm going with you."  
  
"No," Morte replied. "You're not."  
  
"Uther ordered me to go with you."  
  
"I doubt that very much, and even if he did, it doesn't much matter now that there's no Silver Hand for him to be boss of."  
  
"Oh, can't we worry about this later?" asked the one Perenolde knew was named Frederick. "We're wasting time out here arguing in the rain, and in any case, we could use his help with the Steadfast."  
  
"Fine!" Morte shouted. He turned away from Perenolde and resumed walking. Perenolde, Frederick and Lawdron followed quickly.  
  
They reached the shipyard where the Majesty was moored and continued on towards the Steadfast. As they saw soon afterwards, the smaller ship was docked at the end of a rickety pier that extended only a few yards into the water. The ship had no doubt been docked there because it was nearby rather than for any structural quality, for the dock appeared to have been hastily built and, Perenolde thought, would be easily collapsible. It mightn't even last the storm, he said to himself.  
  
They climbed out gingerly on the pier and climbed aboard the ship, which had been lashed to a tall post on the dock. The stepped up to the main deck, pushing the two lone guards into the water before they could sound an alarm. Morte laughed aloud.  
  
"This will be easy," he said, swinging back his warhammer and taking aim at the wheel. "How can they follow us if they can't steer?" He steadied himself and prepared to swing.  
  
"Wait," Perenolde said. Morte looked at him agitatedly.  
  
"Can any of you rig up a mast?" Morte and Frederick shook their heads, but Lawdron spoke up.  
  
"I can," he said. "My uncle used to be a merchant captain out at Crestfall, and I worked rigging on his schooner for a couple of summers when I was a boy." Morte and Frederick scoffed, as if to say, You still are a boy. Perenolde cleared his throat. Boy or not, Lawdron had just proven extremely helpful.  
  
"I've got an idea," Perenolde said, ""I can steer a ship, but I would need a man to work rigging. Alterac had its own navy years ago when I ruled, and I owned my own ship. This bugger here is supposed to be Admiral Proudmoore's fastest, right? So how about instead of disabling it, we take it? We can sail down the river and catch Miss Jaina before she reaches Watertown, let know she can keep all three of hers, and turn North when we reach the sea."  
  
They were staring at him again. I do wish they'd stop doing that, Perenolde thought.  
  
"Well?" he asked. "Does anyone see a problem with that plan?"  
  
"I do," Morte said caustically. "Who's going to row until the storm cuts out and we can use the sails?"  
  
"And who's going to pull up the anchors?" Frederick added.  
  
"You two look strong," Perenolde returned. Lawdron chuckled.  
  
***  
  
The wind whipping his hair and the rain soaking his clothes, Perenolde gripped the helm and tilted it slightly. The K.T.S. Steadfast turned ever- so-subtly towards the mouth of the river. They were moving, slowly, across the bay, the heavily-muscled Morte and Frederick churning the oars from the sides of the lower deck to push the vessel ever closer to freedom in the river.  
  
The real captain, Perenolde knew, would be inside some tavern, drinking with his men while they waited for the storm to pass. He would not know that his and three other ships of war had been stolen from under his nose until hours later, as Perenolde judged from the stormy skies, when the sun finally peeked through the clouds and the water ceased to fall from the sky. By then, the Steadfast and its sisters would be too far downriver to be retrieved.  
  
Lawdron stood nearby, watching the village buildings as they disappeared behind them into the storm and waiting for the time when he would climb the mast and wrestle with the sails. Perenolde smiled. This he could handle. The bay, and beyond it, the river and the sea, he could handle. Never again, he vowed, would he be thrown from a horse or fall from a tree. Never again would he run away, never again surrender. Never again would he embarrass himself or those he fought for.  
  
He would see the quest through for Uther, and then he would be under obligation to no man alive. He would fight for himself then, and no one else, and the world would see that Perenolde of Alterac still had some honor left, after all.  
  
*** 


	6. Chapter VI

The storm subsided when they had been traveling downriver for four hours. They encountered a steady current, which relieved Morte and Frederick of their rowing and Perenolde of all but the slightest adjustments in course. The clouds dissipated and the stars came out, and the Steadfast passed silently though the night. Perenolde found himself slumbering in the wee hours of the morning, and Lawdron, who claimed to know enough to keep the ship from running aground, replaced Perenolde at the helm. The latter retired to one of the empty cabins and was soon snoring.  
  
When he awoke, the sun had already risen, and Morte and Frederick had joined Lawdron on the deck. Perenolde returned to the helm, at which point the three paladins moved to another part of the ship. Alone with the view, Perenolde began eyeing the townships on either side. They had made significant headway during the night, and the bend that marked the entrance to the bay had long disappeared behind them. He settled himself in and prepared for a long day at the wheel.  
  
Just before noon, by his reckoning, Lawdron appeared, claiming that Frederick had sighted another ship ahead on the river. Perenolde seized a spyglass, which he had found laying around on the deck, and stared through it. Sure enough, he could just make out the shape of a ship far ahead. As it came closer into view, Lawdron, who had since taken the spyglass, confirmed it to be the Guardian, one of the ships Jaina had planned to seize.  
  
"We can't have caught up to them already, can we?" the young knight wondered.  
  
"It's possible," Perenolde admitted. They had made excellent time, once the storm had ended, and they were supposedly piloting the fastest ship in the Kul Tiras navy. Also, Perenolde reminded himself, Jaina had to coordinate between three separate ships, and he and his companions only had to worry about one.  
  
As they drew up behind the Guardian, noting the Vigilant and the Posthaste ahead of it, a familiar humming sound echoed across the deck of the Steadfast and an hourglass shape appeared beside the spot where Lawdron was standing. The young knight jumped in surprise as Jaina appeared next to him, seemingly out of thin air.  
  
"Oh," she exclaimed. "It's you!"  
  
"Happy to see us?" Perenolde ventured.  
  
"Pleasantly surprised," Jaina admitted. "When I saw the Steadfast closing on us, I thought you had botched your task and alerted my father. My captains wanted to open fire on you - your lucky I came here first to check out the situation."  
  
"My thanks, then," said Perenolde.  
  
"You're welcome," Jaina replied. "I didn't realize you planned to steal the Steadfast," she added. She seemed impressed.  
  
"We didn't," Morte said, as he climbed up to the deck. "This bloke talked us into it." He pointed at Perenolde. Frederick followed close behind. Do those two ever split up? Perenolde wondered.  
  
"Is Uther still going to meet us in Watertown?" Jaina inquired. Perenolde shrugged.  
  
"I assume so. We didn't have a chance to tell him we were commandeering this lovely vessel, but I imagine he'll figure it out when he hears it's been stolen."  
  
"Well, the other side of this whole thing is still on," Jaina said suddenly. "I just remembered, I received a message from Fordred Aran, my old tutor - evidently he's in on this too. He's at Watertown with the refugees and some soldiers who want to come with us."  
  
"With you," Frederick corrected. "We've got our own business, remember? We're not going west with your little flotilla."  
  
"Of course, with me," Jaina said. "That's what I meant anyway. You should stop with us at Watertown, though - I gather from Aran that Uther's got a little gift for you before you get underway." Perenolde nodded politely. They would need to stop for supplies anyway. Jaina bowed, and then waved her wand in a half circle. The familiar hourglass shape reappeared, and the sorceress vanished from the deck of the Steadfast, leaving its crew to their duties.  
  
The Steadfast passed the Guardian and the Posthaste, steadying its course between them and the Vigilant. Perenolde had thought of leaving Jaina's little fleet behind and meeting Uther at Watertown - that way, they could probably be to the sea, and therefore truly on their way, before the sorceress even reached Aran and her refugees - but he decided against it. He didn't expect Jaina and her followers to encounter any trouble before their destination, but in case any showed its face, Perenolde wanted to be there to lend a hand.  
  
Thankfully, the remainder of the first leg of their trip passed uneventfully, and by sundown on the following day, the four 'borrowed' ships, as Perenolde thought of them, had safely made berth at Watertown. Uther and an old man in wizard's robes - presumably Fordred Aran - stood waiting at the docks as the ships were anchored and their passengers came ashore. Jaina greeted Uther with a bow before disappearing with the old man. Perenolde stepped onto the dock and approached Uther, his three crewmates trailing behind him.  
  
"I'm amazed," Uther said pleasantly as he saw them. "I never imagined you would steal the Steadfast. Admiral Proudmoore is quite angry, let me assure you."  
  
"Old fool needs to lighten up anyway," Morte muttered. Perenolde smiled. Uther pretended not to hear.  
  
"Jaina said you had something for us," Lawdron said to Uther, who nodded. "Come with me," he said, turning away.  
  
They followed him into a shop, where Uther said something to the elven shopkeeper in a language Perenolde assumed was elven. The shopkeeper replied in the same foreign tongue, and opened a door in the rear of the shop. Uther then led them through the door, which the shopkeeper quickly closed behind them, and out into some sort of garden. They were now standing in a small clearing, though it seemed the garden outside the clearing extended far off. A pair of paladins stood at attention near the door they had come through, and behind them stood a long trunk. All manner of trees, bushes and flowers surrounded the clearing.  
  
"What is this place?" Lawdron wondered aloud.  
  
"It's called a Hope Garden. It seemed a fitting place to do this." He cleared his throat. "Jaina was correct. I do have gifts of sorts for you." He motioned to one of the paladins-at-attention, who turned to the trunk, bent and opened it, and hefted a massive, black-handled warhammer from the ground, handing it to Frederick.  
  
"You left it behind in the forest where you were found," Uther said. "Someone saw it there and returned it to us."  
  
"My thanks, Lord Uther," Frederick replied. "I thought I'd never see this thing again." He tossed it from hand to hand, testing it weight and remembering the many times he had wielded it in the past.  
  
Uther signaled the second paladin-at-attention, who hefted another warhammer from the crate, this time with a silver handle. This was presented to Lawdron, who took it with amazement and overflowing gratitude. "Lord Uther, I-" he began, but Uther interrupted.  
  
"Sir Lawdron," Uther said, his voice full of authority, "by merit of your deeds of courage, and by the power of my station, I hereby promote you, Knight of the Realm, to the station of Paladin of the Silver Hand." Speechless, Lawdron bowed repeatedly, nearly dropping the hammer twice and once nearly falling over himself.  
  
Uther nodded. Next, he reached into the trunk and produced a medallion bearing the Silver Hand crest, which he presented to Morte. "This was Aran's, but he thought you might make better use of it on your quest. It glows when a sick person is nearby - hopefully it will aid you in searching for the plague." Morte murmured a quick "thanks", and strung the medallion around his neck.  
  
"While you're playing Father Christmas," Perenolde said to Uther, "I don't suppose you have my hammer anywhere? I left it behind when we rode from Hearthglen, and I didn't want to bother you before."  
  
"As a matter of fact," Uther said, smiling, "I do believe I have the hammer in question right here." He lifted from the trunk a hammer which, as Perenolde would say afterwards, could have once been the one he was talking about. The family heirloom had been polished and shined, and the Alterac coat-of-arms literally glowed. Perenolde smiled and stretched out his hand to receive the weapon, but Uther held up his free hand to halt him.  
  
"Kneel," he said. Confused, Perenolde did so. Uther lowered the hammer so it sat on his shoulder.  
  
"Sir Perenolde," Uther said, his authoritative voice returning, "although your past deeds have dishonored you and your people, your honor is hereby restored by way of your accompanying these men on their quest. By the merit of your ingenuity and of your loyalty to your debt, and by the power of my station, I hereby promote you, Knight of the Wolf, to the station of Paladin of the Silver Hand." He lifted the hammer from Perenolde's shoulder and held it out to him.  
  
"You can get up now," he added cheerfully. Perenolde rose slowly. Uther pressed the hammer into his hands, and his grip enclosed around it.  
  
"I have something as well," said a female voice. Blinking, Perenolde turned and saw who everyone else was staring at. The door they had come through had opened again, and Jaina now stood in the doorway, her arms crossed. That girl has a habit of coming in unannounced, Perenolde found himself thinking. Uther gave Jaina a stern look.  
  
"I shan't be long," she said meekly. "I have something of my own to give your new Paladin." She unfolded her arms, and, approaching Perenolde, pulled something small out her cloak. She pinned the item on his chest, and backed away. He looked down at it. It was a small badge with an anchor and eye - a variation of the Kul Tiras insignia.  
  
"It's my own symbol - the Proudmoore anchor and the Eye of Dalaran. I'm handing them to all of my captains before we set sail for Kalimdor." Captains? "Sir Perenolde, Paladin of the Silver Hand, blah, blah blah, I hereby officially install you as Captain of the Steadfast. Have a nice day." She turned on her heel and left through the doorway. The door closed again. Perenolde turned to Uther, who held up his hands.  
  
"Don't look at me," he said. "I had nothing to do with that last bit. Maybe she's got something in mind for you when you come back."  
  
When Perenolde regained his cool and his speech, he at first protested, and when Uther would hear none of his protests, he thanked the elder paladin profusely. The other knights - Other knights! Perenolde said to himself - also expressed their thanks for their gifts, and the whole group, including Uther and his steel-faced companions, eventually returned through the door and out of the shop.  
  
The shopkeeper, agitated at the high amount of traffic through her back door, yelled something obscene in elven and slammed the door of the shop.  
  
***  
  
The final group accompanying Jaina numbered well over a hundred and fifty, barely fitting in the three small ships she had (Imagine if you only had two!" Perenolde had told her before she left). The four paladins, as they were now, remained in Watertown long enough to see the sorceress and her followers off before they themselves left the village's docks behind. The Steadfast left the river and entered the sea soon afterwards, turning north just as her three sister ships disappeared behind an offshore fog bank to the west.  
  
Maybe she's got something in mind for you when you get back, Perenolde remembered Uther saying. Perhaps he would follow her across the western oceans, to the unknown lands they hid. The ship did belong to him now - Jaina herself had made that clear enough. Perhaps... perhaps...  
  
His heart full of pride and his newfound sense of adventure, Sir Perenolde - Knight of the Wolf, Paladin of the Silver Hand, and Captain of the K.T.S. Steadfast - gripped the helm and grinned.  
  
*** 


	7. Chapter VII

It was cold, so very cold. Snowflakes and ice crystals hung on his eyelashes, and his breath was visible through the frost. Every time he breathed in it felt as though he had betrayed his body as thousands of molecules of cold invaded his system and chilled him to the core. His very bones felt as though they had turned to ice, his flesh to snow, and his blood to frigid water. He had become winter, and in every moment he froze himself to death.  
  
He wandered, lost in the endless cold. Somewhere, out in the dark, bleak winter, something was calling to him. Something was offering him an escape from this hell. Something wanted him to come to it...  
  
Yes, it said, come to me. I will save you. I will lead you home.  
  
I will show you the way out...  
  
***  
  
Perenolde awoke suddenly. He was still shivering from the nonexistent cold. He looked around. The warmth of the ship's interior filled him and steadied his pounding heart. He brushed the blankets away, stood, stretched, and walked to the porthole. The sun was not yet visible over the mountains that formed the far-off shore, but the sky had already grown lighter. Telling himself that he would have to rise soon anyway, he yawned, stretched again, and went to his trunk.  
  
In addition to their individual gifts, Uther had brought them food, drink and clothing to last them their voyage. Perenolde donned a drab brown pair of trousers and a blue and white sailor's shirt, and stepped into the pair of black captain's boots he had selected from Watertown's local cobbler shop. He searched around in the trunk and finally closed his hands around a round object. He pulled it out and fastened it on his shirt. He grabbed a three-sided hat off of a hook on the wall and placed it on his head, and then he exited the cabin.  
  
Next, Perenolde went to the supply closet. This was the hold beneath the cabin level that housed all of the food. Swinging the trapdoor of the hold open, Perenolde surveyed his options: all manner of dried bread, a large bag of fruit and vegetables, already nearly emptied, and a small case that had contained salted and dried meats, of which nothing remained. He selected an armful of hard biscuits from the bread supplies and an orange from the fruit bag, and, closing the trapdoor with his foot, he turned around and headed up to the deck.  
  
By now the skies were quite bright, and any moment the sun would once again be bearing down on his head. He sat on a barrel and looked around as he ate his breakfast. They had now been a week and a half at sea, and the line of the shore had slowly dropped away from them. In the distance, the snowcapped peaks of northern Lordaeron could barely be seen, and once the sun rose above them, they would become invisible. The lock on the helm had kept their course during the night, and the rudder had not broken free, thankfully. Perenolde pulled out a compass and verified what the helm had shown - they were still on course directly north. They were following the course that Arthas had taken, since Uther was sure the boy knew something about the plague. Uther had also hoped they would bring the boy back, but Perenolde doubted they would see him again. Arthas had left from a port farther east than they, from the very northern shore of Lordaeron, and because of the Steadfast's superior speed, they would likely pass him in the night and reach the lands of the north first, having never seen the wayward prince's ships.  
  
Perenolde put the last bite of biscuit into his mouth and pulled a knife from his belt to slice the orange. His routine morning duties finished - the checking of course and compass, the staring blankly at the vanishing shoreline - Perenolde's thoughts returned to the dream. It still lived in his memory, but like all dreams, it had already faded somewhat. He did not remember where he had been, only the strange voice and the unimaginable cold. The very memory caused him to shiver involuntarily.  
  
The sound of footsteps interrupted his thoughts. He looked up to see Sir Frederick climb up to the deck. Perenolde called a good morning to the other knight, who nodded in acknowledgement and sat down on a crate on the far side of the deck. Perenolde recalled to mind the man's story.  
  
Frederick, Duke of Wintermaul, had been the knight whom Sage Truthbearer had sent on his little quest, if Perenolde recalled correctly, whom had not come yet back when he had spoken with Sage at Rockdale. After the disaster at Stratholme, the Silver Hand had arrived to ease the pains of the populace. According to the story, Frederick had emerged from the forestlands at the sight of his fellow knights, having narrowly eluded the undead that stalked the wilderness for several days. Rather than welcome back the returning hero, however, the people of Stratholme (those that were left) feared that Frederick was infected with the plague, and attempted to slay him before he could become another of the monsters they had seen. When Frederick's fellow paladins protected him, the citizens accused them of being in league with the undead armies, and drove the Silver Hand away with the classic torches and pitchforks.  
  
Why Frederick had chosen to join this quest, having endured such hardships already, was a mystery to Perenolde. The Duke was now on a mission to help save the people that had tried to kill him. While Perenolde respected the devotion the man showed, he wondered if perhaps everything wasn't all right in the man's head.  
  
Perenolde looked out again at the faint shoreline. If one looked hard enough, he could see that it ended abruptly several miles ahead. At some point that day, the Steadfast would bid its familiar home shores goodbye and enter the unknown seas of the north. Not for the first time, Perenolde wondered what adventures awaited them up there, at the top of the world. Would they succeed? Would they fail? Would all of them return, or would the Steadfast come home minus a portion of its crew?  
  
Or would they be coming back at all?  
  
A bright light lit up the sky; the sun had risen. As if on cue, more footsteps sounded from below - Lawdron and Morte had awoken. For the first time that morning, Perenolde looked up. The skies were clear, the only clouds far-off and light. A breeze from the south caused the sails to billow.  
  
He pushed his emotions, both pleasant and unpleasant, from his mind, and tossed the orange aside; it rolled off into a corner, and would probably fall overboard during the course of the day. It was time to work. Perenolde stood and gripped the helm.  
  
***  
  
That day, the twelfth since leaving Watertown, the Steadfast bid friendly shores farewell for good and entered the cold, northern seas. Chill winds pushed them northward - welcoming us, Perenolde often wondered, or preventing our escape? - and they began to note small blocks of ice floating upon the ocean's face. The water itself seemed to grow less friendly as waves rose to lift the ship many feet above the surface and drop it again carelessly into the surf. A dim, gray fog descended over the seas ahead of them, hiding the horizon. The skies darkened overhead as thick cloud formations emerged to block out the sun even in the middle of the day, and only the cawing of the gulls gave sign as to night or day.  
  
It was the gulls, in fact, that probably saved the ship from a violent death at the hands of an iceberg. After the ship's third day in the northern seas, it occurred to the crew that land must still be nearby, if out of sight, for the gulls to keep within audible distance of the ship by day and disappear by night. Due to this revelation, Lawdron and Perenolde kept an eye out for the gulls' home, were it ice or earth, and thus scouted a particularly dangerous stretch of ice and avoided it, skirting round the edge of what they would later see was a chain of deadly icebergs, any one of which capable to tearing large holes in the Steadfast.  
  
Perenolde guided the ship west of the ice chain, which at first the crew considered quite wonderful. However, it later occurred to Morte (and he shared it with everyone) that Arthas' flotilla would have sailed east of the deadly strip of bergs and thus was now separated from the Steadfast by a fairly large (for it had by then widened) and extremely treacherous area of water. Lawdron later confirmed this when he scouted from the crow's nest a vessel across the chain and a significant distance south of their position. Perenolde attempted to explain that this was just as likely a lone fishing vessel as one of Arthas' ships, but the pessimistic Morte would not hear it.  
  
On the nineteenth day, an incident occurred which instilled in Perenolde and his crew a lasting image of the land they would soon enter. The water, at this point, had been getting steadily more shallow as the days wore on (although the dark fog that gripped the horizon still masked any land), and the sea floor was now mostly visible beyond the apparent murk. What had struck Perenolde up to this point was the complete lack of undersea life, for he had seen neither carp nor crab, living or dead, since the Lordaeron coast had disappeared behind them a week before.  
  
On this day, however, at one of the many times every day when Lawdron was peering over the side, he called Perenolde away from the helm, claiming there was something the older man had to see. Lawdron pointed into the depths as Perenolde reached his side. At first the captain saw nothing; then, only a few fragmented pieces of long, white stone. Presently, however, as more and more of the pieces came into view, he realized that they were not stones at all.  
  
"It's a skeleton," he whispered. The creature was as long as the ship, and as broad it seemed, and it appeared to possess a pair of skeletal wings which, in life, would have been wide enough in span to cover several ships in a line. They floated on, and other corpses came into view, some as large as the first, others as small as a man or a large shark.  
  
"I remember hearing stories, when I was a child, that when dragons and other great beasts grew tired of being alive, they went to the far north to die," Lawdron said.  
  
"I've heard that story as well," Perenolde assented. "This bone-yard obviously contributed to the myth. Explains why we haven't seen any fish, too - these beasts, whatever they were, kept them away."  
  
"Captain," Lawdron said slowly, "if even the fish stay are smart enough to stay away from here, why are we going through it?"  
  
"Because we've got to get to the other side," said Morte, who had been listening nearby. He went to the helm and grabbed the wheel; Perenolde had at one point forced them all to learn to steer the vessel so that he would be able to stop and sleep when he grew tired. "I say, Captain, you shouldn't leave the helm unattended - you'll sail us smack into a glacier."  
  
***  
  
On the evening of the twenty-first day, Perenolde was shaken from his bunk by a large jolt; the ship, it seemed, had stopped moving. He had only just retired to the cabin (having entrusted the helm to Lawdron), and had not yet been asleep. He brushed aside the blanket, wrapped himself in a cloak and made his way hastily to the deck. The scene at the helm was comical; Lawdron had been thrown on his face by the crash, and his shirt had torn from being stretched over the wheel. He was dazedly pulling himself to his feet as Perenolde emerged onto the deck.  
  
"What have we hit?" he called.  
  
"Boy," Morte yelled from somewhere, "What've you gotten us into now?"  
  
"Nothing," the young man said quietly. "I was about to call... I saw land..." He was pointing. Many yards away, land came up out of the water - real land made of dirt, not more of the foul ice - and beyond the shoreline, trees.  
  
"I just saw it," Lawdron continued. "The fog..."  
  
"Bloody hell," said Frederick, who was looking over the side. "We've run aground!"  
  
Perenolde smacked his forehead in annoyance. Of course! The steadily shallowing waters, the slight slope of the sea floor - though the shore itself was far off still, the ship's belly had scraped the bottom and come to rest. He groaned. With the force they struck with, there was doubtlessly now a hole somewhere near the supply hold - and that was assuming the whole side of the ship had not cracked apart.  
  
Upon returning to the cabin area, Perenolde's fears were confirmed. Water was quickly streaming in from underneath the door to the closet. The bread - all that remained of their food - would be rendered inedible. Worse, they would have to abandon the ship completely until it could be repaired - if it ever could be. Sighing in frustration, Perenolde returned to the deck and faced his three crew members, who had gathered in a semicircle to await his verdict.  
  
"Gather your things," he told them. "We're abandoning the ship." They nodded grimly and filed past him - though they did not always approve of him as a person, they accepted Jaina's appointment of him as their Captain, if for no other reason than that taking the ship had been his idea - and began to disappear below deck.  
  
"Wait," he called. They stopped and looked back at him.  
  
"Bring your weapons," he told them.  
  
*** 


	8. Chapter VIII

There were two small dinghies aboard the Steadfast, and these were loaded with whatever could be salvaged as the water continued to pour into the hold: the few undamaged biscuits; some clothing and belongings; their hammers; and a pair of dwarven rifles that had been stashed behind the helm. After scouring the ship for anything that might be useful upon reaching the unfriendly shore, Perenolde at last gave the order and the two dinghies were lowered into the icy water. Morte and Frederick rowed one boat, and Perenolde and Lawdron the other.  
  
They had made their way to about the halfway point between the ship and the shore when there was the loudest of cracking sounds, followed by an equally loud splash. Perenolde looked over his shoulder. The bulkhead which supported the mast had snapped, probably from the added weight of the water below the deck, and the mast itself had broken and fallen sideways into the sea. The huge weight of the mast on that part of the ship caused the Steadfast to tilt, and, as Perenolde watched, the vessel capsized and the deck fell perpendicular to the surface of the water.  
  
The Steadfast had died. They were on their own.  
  
They continued to row, regardless, for they had already made the choice to abandon the ship for this strange new country. As the boats came ashore, Perenolde examined the beach they had come up on. It appeared to be of white sand, but closer inspection proved it was snow. Rocks and bits of ice ringed the beach, which sloped upwards into a rocky hill. A dark cave opened into the face of the hill. Perenolde pointed to this and spoke.  
  
"We'll camp in the cave," he said. The others grunted their acknowledgment. Everyone was too tired to argue. They climbed the hill, dragging their trunks behind them, and soon reached the mouth of the cave. Nothing visible awaited them. Not trusting the dark places shunned by the moonlight, they settled in the opening where they could see any threats that appeared, and soon fell asleep.  
  
They did not stay that way for long. Seemingly mere moments after he had nodded off - although the position of the moon told him otherwise - Perenolde was roused from his sleep by a low howl. The sound startled him at first, but as it repeated, echoing through the night, he calmed somewhat and listened. Presently, the howl was joined by similar sounds from other creatures. Perenolde remained awake but still for near an hour, listening to the feral sounds grow louder and more distinct as the creatures making them drew closer to one another and to him.  
  
Finally, he could remain still no longer, and the sounds were now loud enough to stop him from sleeping, so he rose and grabbed his hammer from where he had propped it against a wall of the cave. Light flashed outside the cave, drawing his attention; he looked out, and three sets of eyes shined back at him from the beach. The way their eyes shine, he supposed, they must be wolves, or perhaps cats of some sort.  
  
He took a step out of the cave, and as his eyes acclimated themselves to the darkness, he saw that his first guess had been correct - they were wolves, though wolves of such kind as he had never seen in Lordaeron. Their coats were completely white, as white as the snow that covered the ground, and they were nearly twice the size of what one would call normal. Despite their magnitude, however, Perenolde couldn't help but note that they seemed very skinny, even starved. And I'm to be their dinner, he realized.  
  
He took a step back, into the shadows of the cave, and the beasts began to creep towards him up the hill. He steeled himself and set the hammer back down against the cave wall, lifting instead the dwarven Blunderbuss rifle he had salvaged from the ship, and pointing the barrel in the nearest wolf's direction. The wolf in question had now nearly reached the top of the hill, its teeth bared in challenge. It sat back on its haunches, poised to leap - and as it let go and shot through the air towards the cave mouth, Perenolde pulled the trigger, and the beast fell to earth.  
  
Perenolde immediately relocked the rifle and gunned down the second wolf, which yelped and began limping away; only its leg had been hit. The third beast, his companion wounded, saw his first meal in gods knew how long, and leapt upon the crippled wolf with ravenous tenacity. Perenolde fired two more shots at the grappling wolves, silencing them both, and turned back to the cave.  
  
The others had risen, their sleep shattered by the first loudly echoing shot of the rifle. Morte and Lawdron had jumped to their feet, and Frederick had grabbed his hammer.  
  
"Wolves," Perenolde said. He dropped the weapon to the floor and fell back against the wall, sliding down it to a seated position. At once, his head slumped. He was so tired. First the ship, now this, he thought. It must be five in the morning by now. I must sleep!  
  
I must sleep.  
  
I must...  
  
***  
  
Dawn came all too early, as sunlight, however dim, streamed into the cave and rousing them involuntarily from their slumber. They silently finished the remaining biscuits for breakfast, and then Perenolde went to examine the corpses; after all, they had no more food, and even the meat from the scrawny wolves would mean they would eat for another day.  
  
His findings were discouraging. The fallen creatures had no cookable flesh - assuming they could even light a fire in the cold - and it even seemed to Perenolde, in his fatigue, that the beasts were nothing more than bone and skin. All flesh seemed to have evaporated, perhaps devoured in the early morning hours by some invisible parasite. Disgusted and discouraged, Perenolde hauled the carcasses to the beach and disposed of them in the shallows. Surprisingly, the creatures sank quickly, leaving no sign they had ever been there. Afterwards, Perenolde half believed they had disappeared even from the sea floor, for he could not see them from the beach, and only the sharp cold of the icy water prevented him from investigating.  
  
The rest of the morning, and much of the afternoon, was spent scouting the area upon which they had landed. The terrain was hilly and rocky, which, with help from the ever-present fog, obscured from view most of the area until they were right upon it. Often, they would think they had discovered some new stretch, only to realize as they drew nearer that they had gone in circles. The hill of the cave, thankfully, seemed to be the highest point nearby, and thus they were always able to return to their camp - and therefore to where the Steadfast lay sideways in the surf. This was a comforting thought, as it suggested they would always be able to leave - assuming they found some way to repair the vessel.  
  
It was near dusk when Frederick's voice sounded over the hills, screaming, "Come quickly! Back to the camp! Help, we're under attack!" From all sides of the area, the other three knights rushed back to the beach, weapons in hand. As Perenolde rounded the side of their hill, he came face to face with a duel. Frederick was locked in combat - and with an ogre! The great beast was repeatedly swinging a large, spiked club at the veteran paladin, who was parrying to the best of his abilities with a large, black tree branch. His warhammer lay off to the side in several pieces. It seemed the ogre had crushed it.  
  
Perenolde jumped quickly into the fray, assaulting the enemy with his own warhammer. The creature bellowed in rage and swung its free hand in a mammoth fist, which Perenolde narrowly avoided. Frederick boldly shoved his branch into one of the ogre's faces, blinding its pair of eyes on that head, but the beast swatted the branch - and Frederick away. It took a step toward the fallen warrior to crush him as he had his warhammer, but Perenolde leapt onto its back, gripping his hammer by the neck and using it to bash one of the ogre's skulls repeatedly.  
  
Frederick took advantage of the distraction to seize Lawdron's hammer - he had left it with their other belongings in favor of the rifles - and resume his own attack on the creature. The ogre swung Perenolde from its back and roared in anger, but from somewhere, Morte entered the fray, swinging his own hammer and knocking the ogre's blind head clean off. It rolled down the beach into the water. Now down one head and presented with two armed paladins, the ogre did the only thing it could think of - it swung its club knocked them to the ground. Roaring in defiance, the massive creature debated which of its fallen foes to trample first.  
  
From the top of the hill, Lawdron emptied the entire chamber of his rifle into the ogre's chest, with no visible effect other than further enraging the beast. Forgetting the men at his feet, it charge up the hill towards the terrified Lawdron, who was hastily locking the second rifle. As the ogre reached his position, Lawdron raised the weapon in desperation and squeezed the trigger, covering his eyes with his other hand in fear. The creature roared, but was silenced abruptly. It slumped forward, its face falling into the snow. Lawdron uncovered his eyes and looked down. Perenolde and the other paladins looked up from the ground in amazement.  
  
Lawdron had shot the creature straight through its remaining head, killing it. He collapsed in the snow. He was shaking.  
  
"I think I wet myself," he murmured.  
  
***  
  
The battle with the ogre was both good and bad for the paladins. While it involved near-death experiences for all who participated, no one was seriously injured save the ogre itself. The ogre also supplied the paladins with much-needed meat, which they proceeded to cook and eat immediately after the creature's death. Frederick had built a fire of dried branches inside the cave, where there was no snow on the ground - which is probably what lured the creature to him in the first place - and it was as they sat around this, forcing themselves to eat the ogre's disgusting flesh, that something very disturbing happened.  
  
It moved.  
  
They had cut off large sections of the ogre's belly for cooking, leaving the rest of the body to the side of the cave. As they ate, the presumed carcass began to lift itself slowly from the ground. It was dark by then, and in the flickering light of the fire, they did not at once notice the movement. Presently, however, perhaps realizing parts of it had been painfully removed while it was unconscious, the bloody ogre began to moan. This naturally attracted the attention of the men. Jumping up and grabbing his hammer, Morte beat the monster over its remaining head several times. It ceased moving and making any noise.  
  
The significance of this event was at first lost on the men, but over time they would begin to understand...  
  
***  
  
That night, the dream returned, although at first Perenolde believed he was awake, so like the frozen world outside the cave was the nightmare through which he trudged. In the dream, he was marching endlessly through some windswept valley. Mist and fog obscured both the path before him and the way he had come, but his footsteps were sound. Something was calling him forward, something so strong he never doubted his course, never faltered in his steps.  
  
Come to me, a voice echoed through his mind. An image appeared to him, shining brightly through the darkness he felt more than saw. He looked at the image, and saw that it was a map. He saw the Steadfast on it, its mast repaired, moored confidently in the surf as if daring the waves to capsize it anew. He saw the cave and the hill, and beyond it, an endless chain of icy mountains.  
  
And there, at the top of the highest mountain, was the source of the voice.  
  
Come to me, it said. Come to me. I will save you...  
  
***  
  
Again, Perenolde awoke before he was due to, his heart pounding in his chest. He was getting too old for all this excitement. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to rest, to set sail for home and never look back at this place. I will save you, the voice had said to him before, I will lead you home. Perhaps if he listened to the voice, then maybe they could go home. Maybe then his debt to Uther could be paid.  
  
His debt to Uther...  
  
No, he said to himself. I am here for a reason, and I am not going home until it's been taken care of. He steeled himself and looked outside. The moon still shone. A cold wind blew through the entrance to the cave. Somewhere out there, he knew, was some sign, some clue about the mysterious plague and the undead it served. Somewhere, out in that vast winter, was the reason they were here.  
  
We're here to find it, he said silently, and sitting here in this cave is getting us no closer to it. It's time we got moving again.  
  
***  
  
He slept again, but fitfully; images of that high mountain kept creeping into his mind; the voice, calling to him, would not fall silent. When he awoke, he resolved to begin looking for plague's source again, and when he shared this resolution with others, they reluctantly agreed. From their demeanors, he gathered that they had endured a similarly restless night, and like him, they were eager to get moving. He wondered briefly, almost jealously, if the same voice had spoken to them as well, but put the thought out of his head. He was being silly. It was just a dream, after all, incurred from spending too long in the realm of darkness and cold.  
  
It did not occur to him until later that he had also dreamt of the voice before they had ever seen the ice or the mountains...  
  
One other thing caught Perenolde's attention before they left the beach site, and the cave, for good. They had gathered their things, selecting only what they could carry, as they did not wish to carry or drag their trunks all across the frozen land, and they were preparing to leave the beach, when the former lord of Alterac happened to look out across the water at the Steadfast.  
  
It appeared, from where Perenolde stood, that the ship was in full working order. It floated pleasantly on the water, right side up, rising and falling softly with the waves. Its mast, as well, seemed to be perfectly attached. By all rites, it seemed to have never fractured. Had Perenolde then imagined the terrifying splintering of the bulkhead, the awful cracking of the mast which echoed over the water? Had that, too, been part of some dream, some nightmarish vision full of voices and maddening images? Perhaps it had been. All the dreams, the visions were blending together with the real events of their quest, nights and days merging under the sinister moon and shrouded sun which already kept them so similar.  
  
He blinked. It was so far away... perhaps his eyes were merely playing tricks on him now. After all, who could tell from so far off whether that was the mast or a wayward oar? Yes, he told himself, one of the oars has stuck out of the water, and I mistook it in the fog for the mast. It was wishful thinking, he told himself. That's all it was...  
  
He cast one last glance over the beach. Everything was so still here, so dead. Only the decaying corpse of the ogre, cast aside at the mouth of the cave, was any proof they had ever come ashore.  
  
Sighing to himself, Perenolde shouldered his hammer, turned, and walked away from the beach.  
  
***  
  
Yes, my children, a lone, far-off voice said quietly to itself. Come to me, my sons. IT is nearly time...  
  
*** 


	9. Chapter IX

The undead were here. Perenolde knew it. Somehow he just knew. The walking corpses and hulking remains he had faced - and fled - in Lordaeron were here. He could tell from the blight that covered the land where they were now. The horrid, black dirt spread like disease over every area, choking the plants and chasing away the creatures, leaving the area dead to the eye.  
  
More than that however, he was sure he had caught glimpses of them from time to time - brief slices of some familiar monstrosity on the other side of a boulder as they passed, or a snatch of a black-robed-wizard's cackle, carried over the winds, or perhaps a faint mechanical creaking, which he attributed to the horrific, lurching meat wagons.  
  
He saw nothing, but he saw everything. They once passed the skeleton of a small, lizard-like creature, its skull laying separate from the rest of is body. In his mind, Perenolde entertained the thought of the creature doddering about without its head, eventually laying down to die without it since, with no eyes, it would be unable to find the missing part.  
  
He had rubbed his eyes then, and shaken his head. No. The winds had more likely tossed the skull about until it landed apart from the rest of the skeleton. Perenolde's mind was playing tricks on him, he assured himself, a result of the fatigue - for sleep continued to bring no rest, their nights kept long by horrid nightmares and the inhuman screams of the dead land.  
  
***  
  
It was by sheer luck that they discovered the armory. They had been moving vaguely north and east for two days since leaving the beach, and they were down some weapons; between Perenolde's handling of the wolf attack and Lawdron's marksmanship against the ogre, they had spent all of the ammunition for the rifles. Furthermore, Frederick's warhammer had been shattered by the great beast before his companions could come to his rescue, although Lawdron allowed him use of the younger knight's hammer, preferring, himself, to swat at any enemies they might encounter with the butt of the now-empty rifle.  
  
They had come upon a narrow bluff, upon which they had decided to rest. It was about four in the afternoon. They were seated atop the bluff, eying the surrounding area, when Perenolde gasped suddenly.  
  
"It's a building!" he said. They turned to look. Sure enough, a small stone structure was protruding slightly from the side of a snow bank. It was quite tiny and unremarkable, and had they not stopped in front of it to rest, they never would have seen it; such was the obscurity by the snows that framed the building.  
  
Excitedly, the paladins jumped to their feet and ran to the structure. They set about smoothing snow off the front of it, soon unearthing hinges, then a knob, and then a whole door. Removing the last of the snow from the door frame, Perenolde reached for the knob and pulled. It turned, and the door swung open.  
  
Inside was as unremarkable as out. A musty smell permeated the single room of the structure, indicating it had not been opened in some time. Dust covered the floor, which was wooden, and scraps of metal were strewn seemingly at random throughout the room. A fireplace, though long extinguished, existed in one corner, and an anvil with a blacksmith's hammer sat forgotten nearby.  
  
"This was a smithy," Lawdron said.  
  
"I wonder where the smith is, then," Morte returned.  
  
"Look!" exclaimed Frederick, pointing. On the far wall, four swords hung neatly from tiny hooks. The paladins approached them. The sword hilts where decorated with hideous, snarling faces, and the blades were adorned with scores of ornately carved symbols. The very metal seemed to glow an eerie, faint blue. Frederick, who reached them first, lifted the nearest one from the wall and held it at arm's length, examining it.  
  
"Good balance, excellent craftsmanship," he remarked. "I don't know if I've seen a more perfect blade anywhere."  
  
"I don't know what your talking about," Morte said, pulling out a second blade. "Mine's just wonderful - I can't see how yours would be any better."  
  
"Shut up, both of you," said Lawdron, who was staring at yet a third blade. "Can't you see this one's the best? Here," he exclaimed, grabbing Morte by the shoulder, "have a look!"  
  
"Why, that's nothing, boy," Morte replied, holding his blade over his head. "This one's far better make."  
  
"As if you knew anything, Morte!" piped up Frederick again. "I dueled with swords for five years before I became a paladin, I should think I could tell the better sword when I look at them!"  
  
"Ha!" Morte retorted. "I dueled for seven years! So I should I could tell the better one!"  
  
"I worked as a blacksmith," said Lawdron, "and I can assure you that this one here is lighter and quicker."  
  
"Yes," Frederick admitted, "but who cares about that if you've no power? That sword you've got couldn't break a block of wood, much less a real live enemy. This blade, here, now it's got power!"  
  
"What good's power if you can't hit a damn thing?" Lawdron sniffed.  
  
"What's with you two? Can't you see mine's got both?"  
  
"I can see yours has got neither," Frederick said.  
  
"I can't a bloody thing yours has got, Morte," agreed Lawdron.  
  
"Care to test?" Morte challenged. "I reckon with this thing I could take you both!"  
  
"No, I can take you both!" Frederick said.  
  
"Not with that measly club, you can't," exclaimed Lawdron.  
  
"'Club', you call it?" Fredrick raged.  
  
"Yes, I did!" yelled Lawdron. "Now, here's a sword!" He held his high.  
  
"No, here's a sword!" Morte bellowed.  
  
"Here's a sword!" Frederick shrieked.  
  
"Yes," Perenolde interrupted. "Here are three swords. I'm glad we agree on that. Can we please move along, now?" They blinked and stared at him.  
  
"Aren't you taking one?" Frederick asked after a pause. "There was a fourth, you know."  
  
"I know," Perenolde said, "I can see it on the wall."  
  
"Why don't you take it, Captain?" Lawdron asked.  
  
"Oh, come on, boy," interjected Morte, "you don't have to call him Captain anymore. We're not his crew anymore - not that we ever were, since it wasn't his ship."  
  
"I won't take it," Perenolde said to Lawdron, ignoring Morte, "because it belongs to someone. Someone made it, someone left it here, and someone will be wanting it back."  
  
"You can't be serious!" accused Frederick. "This place has been abandoned for ages! I doubt the smith will ever come back."  
  
"I don't think these were forged by the same smith who lived here," Perenolde said quietly. "They're of different metal than the scraps on the floor. Plus, there's hardly any rust or dirt on the blades, and quite a bit on everything else. I think they were put here by someone else - and recently."  
  
"Then they were foolish to leave them unguarded, and they'll pay for that now," said Morte grimly.  
  
"Besides," Lawdron offered, "we know that there's other people here already - well, there was one ogre, at least. If we don't take them, someone else will, undoubtedly."  
  
"Then take them," Perenolde conceded, "but I won't. I don't care for them, anyway. They just have a strange feel to them. Besides," he added, "I rather prefer my hammer."  
  
"Oh, hang your hammer!" Morte said. "Can't you see these are far superior weapons that the paladins' crude mauls?"  
  
"The warhammers bear the holy blessings of the Silver Hand," Perenolde said resolutely.  
  
"There is no Silver Hand!" said Lawdron. "Arthas disbanded it, remember? There is no Silver Hand, there is no blessing, and there are no paladins!"  
  
"No," said Perenolde with finality, "there is one."  
  
There was a pause; awkward silence filled the room for a moment. Then Morte broke it.  
  
"Fine." He took his blade, and exited the room.  
  
"Suit yourself," said Frederick. He followed Morte out.  
  
"If a fool wants to stay a fool..." trailed Lawdron. He went past Perenolde, leaving him alone.  
  
Alone... with the final sword.  
  
Perenolde stared at it for many moments. Outside, the others might have left; he didn't care. Time seemed to stand still as he stared across the room at the lonely blade. The face on the hilt suddenly seemed very real. Its nostrils flared, releasing a cloud of frozen breath. Its jaws and teeth gnashed.  
  
Its eyes stared into his soul.  
  
He approached it slowly - now extending a finger towards it; now an arm; now two. He reached it finally, and he cautiously moved his fingers over the metallic beauty before him. It felt so smooth in his hands, so light; so perfect. No mere mortal smith could have crafted it; of that he was sure. He ran his hands over the hilt, the shaft, the tip...  
  
Suddenly, he felt a sharp stab. He looked at his hand; it was bleeding. He had cut his finger on the tip of the blade. Suddenly doubt returned, and with it, the strange, eerie feeling he had earlier sensed. Something was very wrong with this weapon, he suddenly realized. Something was very wrong, indeed.  
  
He set the blade back on its stand and back away from it slowly, as if it was some great beast, poised to strike at him. He tripped on something; it was his warhammer, lying where he had dropped it, forgetfully, as he had approached the sinister sword. He bent and picked it up. Somehow, it comforted him to grasp the holy weapon. It would protect him, he knew from the evil of the sword.  
  
Hardening himself, he turned to leave the blade behind, but one last thing caught his eye. A small plate he had not noticed before hung neatly beneath the stand that had housed each blade. He ran his eyes across the text on the first three plaques, but it was no use; the symbols on them were not ones he recognized. His eyes reached the final plate, and he gasped. These symbols were easily read. He stared at them, their shapes impressing themselves into his memory.  
  
Frostmourne, the plate said. Frostmourne. Frostmourne.  
  
The blade's name is Frostmourne, said a voice in his mind. It is yours...  
  
No, he said forcefully. No, it is not mine. This, he said, grasping the warhammer, is mine.  
  
He turned and exited the room. The blade remained.  
  
*** 


	10. Chapter X

It was the third day since they'd left the beach, and the fourth since they had run aground, and they were by now high in the mountains. Snow was falling, and paths once traversable became closed to them as new ones opened up. Everywhere was cold and white. Everywhere was silent, but for the crunch of their own boots upon the rocky ground and the occasional boom of thunder as lightning flashed about in the skies above.  
  
They were following a narrow path around the edge of one of the icy mountains. Presently, they came to a place where the path ended, continued only through a tiny crevasse in the rocky mountainside. The hole was very slim indeed, narrow enough that one could just make it - it appeared - if one slid sideways through and ducked his head. Nevertheless, the hole beckoned amiably, offering solace from the snow and wind, and a place to catch one's breath in peace.  
  
"Well," said Frederick, "we've come too far up here to turn back without a look," and he slid through the opening without so much as a look back. After a moment or two, Lawdron and Morte followed, and Perenolde had no choice but to follow.  
  
The chamber within was much larger than one would have guessed from the entrance, and there was ample room to move about. Lightning lit the chamber through the opening, and Lawdron gasped.  
  
"It goes on!" he said excitedly. "There's another opening at the far end, almost like a doorway! The passage goes on through there!" He got up from where he had been leaning on the wall and began making his way towards the portal in question.  
  
"I don't think it's the best idea to go stumbling about in some dark cave," Perenolde began but Frederick interrupted.  
  
"Then don't come with us," he snapped. He and Morte went after Lawdron toward the hole, and Perenolde, sighing, followed them.  
  
The passage beyond the hole was more visible - perhaps their eyes had already begun to adjust, or perhaps light entered from some unseen corner - and they could see that it extended quite a ways, veering off to the left ahead. The three sword-bearing knights continued quite quickly down the passage, Perenolde reluctantly stumbling along behind them. After the first turn, the passage turned again, this time to the right. It continued to twist and weave at sharp angles - not at all as a cave should, Perenolde thought - all the while growing lighter and lighter.  
  
It had grown light enough to see almost as well as outside - barring the walls of falling snow - when Morte exclaimed, "I do believe that's torchlight ahead!" The drew nearer and saw he was correct; torches had indeed been set and lit in little nooks and crannies along the walls, just far apart to span the length of the light. The passage, thus, was quite bright, and they could see it ended two yards down in what was unmistakably a door.  
  
"Now we've done it," Frederick muttered. "We've come up in someone's basement. Probably another ogre - don't reckon they'll be very happy to see us."  
  
"Maybe it's Arthas," Lawdron said.  
  
"He wouldn't have reached the shore yet," Perenolde asserted, "let alone built all this."  
  
"Well, someone did!" Morte said.  
  
"Yes," said Frederick, "but that doesn't mean there's anyone here now."  
  
"No, but someone had to light the torches," Perenolde maintained.  
  
"Oh, hang it all," said Lawdron. "They're just as likely to be friendly as not. I'm trying the door." He grabbed the knob, and it turned. He swung it wide.  
  
A pair of arrows landed in the wood of the door with a soft 'thunk' directly above his head. He slammed the door shut again quickly.  
  
"Well," said Frederick, "at least we know they're friendly."  
  
"Alright," Perenolde said, his mind at work. "They know we're here now. They might have even been expecting us. We can't go back, they probably know the caves much better than we do. We've got to move forward."  
  
He looked at Lawdron. "How much did you see? What's in there?"  
  
"It's a large room, with a dais at the far end," he answered. "I didn't se where the shots came from."  
  
"Alright. Alright." Perenolde thought for a moment. "We make for the dais - at least we can take cover behind it. Try not to get shot, I guess."  
  
"Why, thank you, Perenolde," said Morte. "That was very helpful."  
  
"Shut up and move," said Perenolde. They crowded around the door, ready to rush in. Perenolde raised his hammer, and the others drew their swords.  
  
"Ready?" Perenolde asked. "1, 2, 3!" They charged in, swinging the weapons, ready to dodge any arrows that came their way.  
  
None did.  
  
Any icy voice came to them from somewhere they could not see. "Why, gentlemen, how rude of you to barge in like that. I should think such holy men as yourselves would have better manners." Perenolde shuddered. It was the voice from his dreams.  
  
"Relax, dear Perenolde. You've little to fear." Perenolde looked around for the source of the voice, but as in the dreams, he could not locate it.  
  
"Please, my guests, come closer. Approach the dais so I can get a look at you." No one moved.  
  
"Must I send escorts for you?" From unseen doorways on either side of the room, long lines of creatures filed into view. Each was constructed from what appeared to be bone, and each held a long, black bow fitted tightly with an arrow. Perenolde narrowed his eyes. He had seen these creatures at Hearthglen. They were the undead, the townsfolk who'd been corrupted by the plague. They were doubtlessly also the source of the bolts that had narrowly missed Lawdron moments before.  
  
The companions remained still. "I asked you to relax," the voice cackled. "They won't hurt you if you cooperate. The shots before hit the door on purpose; if I wanted them to kill you, they would have. I assure you, your corpses are not what I desire. Now, APPROACH." A chill wind was blowing suddenly from the doorway they had entered. It blew hard and pushed the men all the way to the dais.  
  
"Better," said the voice. "Now, if I might have your attention. UP HERE." Perenolde looked up at the ceiling and gasped. Above the dais floated a massive block of ice, and within in it appeared the image of a great skull.  
  
"Who are you?" Perenolde said.  
  
"I am your destiny," the skull said. "I sought you out and brought you here. I called you here from the faraway shores of your birth, and you have come." The skull smiled, if it was possible to smile, and looked at Morte, Lawdron and Frederick. "I see you have brought back my Runeblades, as well. How nice of you."  
  
It looked at Perenolde, and the smile evaporated. "You, however, have not brought back the Runeblade I left for you."  
  
"You left them?" Perenolde gasped.  
  
"Yes. But you have not brought it back to me."  
  
"I thought... I did not wish to steal."  
  
"You lie, Perenolde. You lie! You feared it, and feared what it could do. You feared its power, and you fled."  
  
"No," he began, but the skull interrupted.  
  
"Be silent. You have nothing to fear from that blade, nor it from you. You may still rectify your mistake... A grave mistake though it was." The skull closed its eyes and roared. The winds whipped through the cavern, stinging Perenolde and freezing him. The roar grew louder and louder, and he was forced to cover his ears and squeeze his eyes shut. Then quite suddenly, the roar fell silent.  
  
Perenolde opened his eyes and gasped again. The skull was directly in front of him now, and it had shrunk to the size of his fist. That, however, was not what had mad him gasp; for springing from the top of the skull was a sword hilt, and from the skulls jaws sprung an icy blade, anchoring it to the ground.  
  
The skull in the blade spoke. "I am Frostmourne." All the sounds of the winds, of the creaking of the undead's bones, even of the men breathing fell silent.  
  
"I will give you untold power," the skull continued. "All the world will be at your feet. All will know your name and speak it only with fear. None will stand against the might of Lord Perenolde." A vision appeared in Perenolde's mind of himself seated on the throne of Lordaeron. People were bowing to him, children showering him in rose petals, and someone was placing a crown upon his head.  
  
And there, at his feet, the bodies of Uther and King Terenas lay, motionless...  
  
No, Perenolde thought. He shook his head, and the image vanished.  
  
"You resist," the skull said. "You fear you will betray your people. But you will be leading them to victory..." A new image appeared, this time of a great battle. Humans were fighting orcs, meeting him blade for blade. Perenolde sat atop a mighty beast and raised his hands in the air. Lightning flashed. The orcs began to scream. They were turning to dust, decaying where they stood... No, Perenolde thought, and again he shook his head. The image remained. No. No. No, no, no...  
  
"No, no, NO!!" he yelled, whipping his head violently from side to side. The image dissipated.  
  
"Fool," the skull spat. "I am offering you endless power; eternal reign of this pitiful world. And still you fear I will destroy you?"  
  
"I will not betray my people," Perenolde said.  
  
"Aha," the skull sneered. "You do not wish to betray your people. Ironic, coming from such as you, Perenolde." A new image appeared in his mind, this time clearer than ever, because it showed not the future, but the past. A great orc in black armor stood over him as humans groveled at its feet. Perenolde was extending a blade to the orc, hilt first, in surrender. Children were crying...  
  
Perenolde wiped the tears from his eyes. "No, demon. You will not do this to me."  
  
"But what will you do to yourself, Perenolde? What have you done already?"  
  
"I surrendered my powers, my sovereignty, once, so that my people might live. You would have me do the opposite. I will have no part of this wickedness." He stood and turned towards the door, intent on leaving. His hammer lay forgotten at his feet.  
  
"No," the skull's icy voice reluctantly assented. "Perhaps not."  
  
At once a searing pain erupted through him. He bent in agony, and looked at his hand. The wound the blade had made, days before, had opened, and his blood was pouring from it. He screamed in anguish, but forced himself to watch. He bled, and bled, and bled, until all of his blood had run from his body into a pool at his feet, drenching his hammer. But the horror was yet far from over.  
  
The wound turned black then, and the blackness began to spread to the tips of his fingers and up his arm. It spread over his chest and back, up his neck and over his head, down his torso and around his legs. It covered him completely, freezing him in place; for wherever the black touched, he found he could not move.  
  
"Perhaps you are right," the skull rasped. "Perhaps this blade is not for you after all." In his mind, he saw a ship beached on the eastern part of the icy shore, far from his own vessel. A man was wading ashore, a man in paladin's armor, with long, flowing, blonde hair...  
  
Arthas...  
  
No, Perenolde tried to say, but his mouth was sealed shut. Not the boy, anyone but the boy...  
  
The skull laughed.  
  
***  
  
Ner'zhul turned then his gaze on the three who had sat patiently through the scene. They were bowed in attention, their blades drawn and planted in the ground in salute.  
  
"You shall be the first," he rasped, grinning, "though others will surely come to me in time..."  
  
***  
  
Perenolde blinked. The boy was standing in front of him, frowning. Perenolde extended his arm in greeting, but stopped as he realized it was covered in plates of metal the color of dusk. He looked down, and his whole body was armored in the drab metal pieces. Arthas stepped forward, swinging his hammer and knocking Perenolde to the ground. Perenolde raised a gauntleted hand to shield himself.  
  
"Still trying to protect the sword?" Arthas sneered.  
  
"No," Perenolde found himself saying. "Trying to protect you... from it..."  
  
*** 


	11. Chapter XI

The snow was cold. The traveler did not know how long he had been covered in it, unmoving, but he sat up suddenly, looking around. The land was much changed; the mountains had crumbled, and the snow had ceased to fall. He raised a hand to rub his head, but stopped.  
  
The black metal was gone - his hands were bare. He pulled himself up. This was strange. He was sure he was dead. He had died at least twice, he was quite sure, yet here he was again.  
  
"Why, hello," said a voice.  
  
He turned. The boy stood there, his armor now adorned with skulls and black symbols. He seemed taller, older, as if some event had aged him greatly. On his head sat a mythic mask with a single great skull.  
  
The traveler shuddered, recognizing the skull. "It's you," he murmured.  
  
"Yes," the boy said. "You escaped me before, but I've come to collect you." He pulled a blade from his sheath. "I don't need this anymore. Would you like it?"  
  
"No," he said without looking at it. "Why - how am I here?"  
  
"It's the island," the boy said casually, as if it was of no importance. "One of my better ideas, actually. Whenever something dies here, the life force of the island itself restores it. It makes things much easier for my necromancers." Images came to travelers mind: wolves with no flesh; a lizard skeleton with its head lying separate; an ogre reviving as its flesh cooked nearby; a snapped mast returning to its correct position on a ship.  
  
"Why'd it take so long, then?" he asked.  
  
"Well, a human being's a lot more difficult to raise than a beast or a boat. Also, I decided to keep you buried and out of the way for a little while. To be honest, you'd still be there, but I had some troubles of late and needed to put those powers elsewhere. No hard feelings, though - I'd love to have you back."  
  
The traveler looked around. He recognized the area now; it was changed, but not truly drastically. It seemed rather as if someone had gotten bored and decided to rearrange a bit. He determined the direction in which the ship must be beached, and began to walk.  
  
"Wait," the boy called. The traveler stopped, and turned to look at him. The boy looked sheepish.  
  
"Well, aren't you going to take the sword? You'll need it. There are some... unfriendly creatures here."  
  
"No thank you," the traveler said, as he resumed walking. He spoke over his shoulder.  
  
"I'll not be coming back."  
  
*** 


End file.
